


Intermittent Tremor

by BlindBandit44



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Child Abuse, Eventual Johnlock, John Watson growing up, M/M, POV John Watson, Panic Attacks, Rape Recovery, Teen John, a little bit of young Sherlock too, but it's just a retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 27,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindBandit44/pseuds/BlindBandit44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen John's dad attempt to beat John into submission nearly works, until John runs away and finds Sherlock when his life hits an all time low.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I can feel my blood pumping through my veins, my heart pounding in my chest. If anybody asked me to describe what love felt like, I would simply say high off of adrenaline. 

James is mine, he always will be. And tonight, I have claimed him. I can feel every quiver of his skin, every shiver down his spine. I kiss his neck softly and whisper ‘mine’ as I finally enter him. James moans my name as I pull out, slowly, a bit nervous, and push back in. Its our first time. My first time with another boy. I kissed a girl once because my mates dared me to, but it was wrong. And this? This is anything but wrong. 

We make love. Because thats what this is between us. Love. I can see the word so clearly in my mind, even when my thoughts are blurred with lust. Thats why he is under me. Thats why this is okay. 

This is okay. And I’m in love.

I love him, and he loves me.

I tell James I love him as I come, deep inside him. Panting his name, and stroking him through his climax.

He doesn’t say it back.

We fall asleep together in my bed, holding eachother.

~~~

“John! Get down here!” 

I open my eyes, blinking at my clock, trying to focus my blurry vision. I’ve slept in past ten this morning, so my dad’s home, and I feel slightly panicked, knowing I didn’t do my chores last night. But that’s nothing compared to the complete and utter terror I feel when I hear James moan quietly next to me, still asleep.

I bolt straight out of bed, my mind full of nothing but fear. _He can’t be here!_ My mind can’t decide if I’m more scared James is still here, or if my dad has just gotten here. Either way, I know they can’t be here at the same time.

“James! Fuck, James, wake up!” I whisper, trying to shake James awake. “James, you can’t be-” I don’t even get to finish my sentence as James lifts his head at the exact same time my bedroom door opens.

“John I said-” My dad starts, but freezes in his tracks. He probably doesn’t even believe his eyes. I’m leaning over James, stark naked, breathing in his air. All of us have frozen in place.

“John, what the hell is going on here?” My dad starts, quiet, but voice still heated with anger. 

“Uhm. James was just sleeping over last night. I was waking him up so he could go home and I could do my chores.” I lie, trying to come up with some excuse for James being here.

“And why are you both naked?” The calmness of his voice sending chills down my spine.

“It, uh, it got kind of hot last night.” I lie again, looking away.

“Its the middle of winter, and this room if fucking cold. James, get your clothes and see yourself out. Now.” James jumps at my dads voice. Grabbing the closest pair of jeans and a t-shirt and running out the door without even putting them on or checking if they’re his.

I fall back on my bed, defeated and not ready to look my dad in the eyes. “John. I’ve told you, you like girls, damn it. I’ve warned you haven’t I?” He isn’t even yelling yet, but each syllable stings like a slap to my skin. “This isn’t normal. This isn’t _right_.” My dad practically growls, stepping closer to my bed. “Say something!” This time he yells, raising his hand.”

“I-I’m sorry!” I cry out, putting my arms up to lessen the inevitable blow.

“You’re sorry?” He growls again, yanking up my head by my hair so I have to look at him. “Sorry you’re fucking some boy? Sucking his dick, and getting off on it?” I can see the anger in his eyes, and smell the cheap booze on his breath.

“I love him.” I whisper.

“Love? No, you don’t love boys, John. You love girls. How many times do I have to beat this lesson into you before you get it?” 

I don’t answer, and that's clearly the wrong choice. Before I have any time to protest, I’m being thrown down on my bed, face up, and taking punch after punch. _black eye, bruised rib, sprained wrist_. It takes a solid ten minutes before the pain dulls enough to realize I’ve been left on my bed alone, crying by myself. Naked and bloodied. 

I lay there for another half a minute. Composing my thoughts, and convincing my brain. _It’s okay. This is okay_. I lift my self slowly, wincing slightly at the sharp pain on my left ribcage. But other than that, its a pretty typical beating. I can make it through this. Just one step at a time. 

I put on a pair of pants, and walk down the hall to the bathroom as quickly as I can manage. But sure enough, Harry’s made it in before me. “Harry.” I rasp, my voice rough from crying. “Harry, let me in.”

“Wait your turn, Jonny.” She calls out.

“Please Harry?” I plead. “If you’re not naked or anything, can we share? I’m bleeding.” And with that, the door opens. No questions asked. I make my way over to the medicine cabinet, as Harry continues to brush her hair and looking in the mirror. Trying to hide her glances at me. 

I stand next to her, get a wash cloth wet, and clean my face as I stare blankly into the mirror. Why did I do this to myself? Why did I get caught? Why did I do it? Tears start falling down my cheeks again, without any warning. I sigh, frustrated. I put the cloth down and inspect my ribcage.

“It’s not your fault Jonny. You can’t help who you love.” Harry whispers, avoiding eye contact.

“He didn’t even say he loved me back.” I say, avoiding her eyes too.

“Well then, he’s an idiot.” I don’t say anything. I know her words aren’t true. Who could ever love me? I’m a freak. A freak who _gets off_ on fucking boys. “You’re sixteen Jonny. You don’t have to be in love with the first boy you sleep with.”

“I know.” I say, my voice still hoarse. I don’t want to talk about it. I want to crawl back in bed and never come back out. I want to forget life, forget my dad, and do absolutely nothing. But thats not an option. So, instead, I suck it up, and leave the bathroom. I walk into my bedroom, put on some clothes, and head downstairs.

Dad’s passed out on the couch, the alcohol finally doing its job. I sigh heavily with relief. I hate having to face my dad like everything is okay after a beating. At least when he’s passed out, I can do my chores without him staring at me like the failure I am.


	2. Chapter 2

Dinner is always awkward enough when dad is drunk and Harry and I have to go about acting normal. But for all of that, its even worse when dad is sobered up. Harry and I avoid talking, the headaches he gets from lack of alcohol make him more than a little irritable; but sobering up always seems to remind him that he has children he’s supposed to care about and pretends to play mom for twenty minutes.

“How was school today?” I can hear him trying to hide the tremor in his voice. Dads alcoholism has gotten out of hand since mom died. Even going twenty four hours without a beer seems to give him migraines, bad tremors, mood swings, and some serious anxiety issues.

“I started rugby today.” I say as an attempt to keep his anger under control. Rugby is masculine, it’s not purely academic, therefore not out of his range of comprehension, and something light we can all talk about.

“Still playin’ rugby, huh? That's a great mans sport.” Dad states, the _and gays aren’t allowed_ implication clearly looming over the dinner table, but no one comments, we never do.

“Yeah, and I might even make captain of the varsity team this year too.” Dad nods slowly, liking the idea of his not gay son being a leader in an overtly masculine sport. If I were more courageous I would say James might be co-captain with me, just to prove having the label _gay_ doesn’t mean anything. But I don’t.

“I have a date Friday.” Harry chimes in, a smile creeping on her lips.

“Sounds fun. What are you going to do?” I can’t help but cringe at the forced pleasantries between my dad and Harry, they’ve never got on, and I can already feel the tension in this conversation.

“Just a movie I think. She said there was some film that sounded interesting.”

My heart stops. Did she just say-?

Dad chokes on his coke, “What?” He sputters, setting his glass down.

“Clara has some film she wants to see Friday on our date.” You can see the instant the smug grin is washed off Harrys face. Its at the same moment that dad stops gaping at her, and turns straight to me, eyes focusing in on my head.

“You. You did this, didn’t you?” Dad spits, his whole face turning an angry red, and the tremor in his voice is uncontrollable.

“I didn’t do anything!” I protest, dread and anxiety trying to shove its way out of my chest.

“You turned your sister into a freak like you!” He stands up, and the yelling only making his face turn a darker shade of red. “Get in your room, and leave the door open, I’ll be in there after I talk with your sister.”

My heart drops. I give my sister an apologetic look, wishing I could stop the imminent punishment we’re both about to get. But instead, I rush into my room, knowing better than to take my time.

I sit on the edge of my bed, my hands over my ears and my face in my lap, trying desperately to keep the yelling from drifting into my room, but he’s too loud. He’s too violent. I feel the first salty tear fall down my cheek as soon as I hear the first slap of skin hitting skin.

_Ungrateful child!_ *slap*

_Fucking queers!_ *slap*

_I don’t deserve this!_ *slap*

My door flies open and my father storms in before I even get a chance to situate myself. My head whips up, and I frantically wipe away stray tears.

“Real men don’t cry, that’s how I know you’re a freak. You know that? You’re just wrong!” His whole body is shaking, and I can feel him tremble through my body as he hoists me up by my t-shirt. “I swear to God if I ever catch you fucking another man, or turning your sister into a freak like you again, it will be your end.”

I receive a quick punch to my left eye, and then thrown to the ground with my head knocking painfully onto my bedside table on my way down. On the way out he kicks my stomach, which feels more like an after thought than an initial action, but still burns all the same.

My door slams angrily, and I hear the heavy thumping of my dad barreling down the stairs, and then straight out the front door. Probably going to go straight to the nearest pub to get shitfaced off their cheapest beer. Soon after, I hear the soft pitter patter of my sister hurrying up the stairs and quickly going into her bedroom. I hear the soft click of her door shutting, and I wished I was a better brother. I wish I could get up and go with her. Help her however I can. But I can't seem to muster up any strength. The floor is fine. More than fine, it's quite lovely really. I curl up tighter and close my eyes. Tomorrow is a new day. Everything will be okay after I wake up, I just need a few minutes of sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major trigger warnings, please read tags before reading this chapter!

“Come on John! One beer ain’t gonna kill ya! We just won, live a little!” Jeff tells me, trying to pass me a beer from across the table. 

“I’m good mate, maybe next time.” I say, brushing it off. And it works well enough, Jeff’s really too hammered to care anyways. Everyone is celebrating, Mike’s parents are out of town so he’s hosting a huge victory party for beating our rival team tonight. It was a great game, and its nice to have a night out with the guys.

“John! How’s it going?” Mike comes up behind me, giving me a slap on the back. “I heard you had an interview before the game, what was it for?”

“It was for a scholarship.” I say blandly. Not really wanting to talk about it. The woman was more excited about giving me money than me actually taking it.

“What, for med school?” Mike is more than just a little tipsy, but coherent enough to hold a conversation.

“Yeah, she offered me a full ride if I join the military after med school. But I don’t know.” 

“Full ride? Hell, my parents would kill me if I didn’t take an opportunity like that!” Mike says, taking another swig from his beer.

“Yeah, but Harry is still living at home, I don’t know if I could leave her with my dad like that.” That certainly shuts Mike up. I haven’t told anyone what exactly my dad does to me and Harry on a regular basis, but I’m sure Mike, and half the school, have gotten a pretty good idea from the way Harry and I show up to class sometimes.

After a minute and a half of awkward silence, Mike stands up, “Well, I need to take a piss. You should think about that scholarship though.”

As Mike leaves I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s getting late, and I really should make it home before my dad. On Friday nights he usually gets back from the pub between 1:00 AM and 3:00 AM. I quickly grab my things and sneak out the door, not wanting anyone to catch me and convince me to stay any later.

I step outside into the cool, crisp air. I pull my jacket a little tighter, and start the half-mile trek back to my house. It really is a nice night, and after winning our biggest game, I feel on top of the world. Really, the only thing that could have made this night better, would have been bringing James back with me right now. I let out a heavy sigh, and watch my breath disappear into the dark, star filled sky. James wouldn’t have come anyways. He hasn’t even been able to look at me since the incident a few weeks ago. How could I blame him though? I was so stupid, why did I get caught? Or, rather, why did I do it? Dad must be right. Only freaks would. Fuck boys. As he likes to put it. Its not normal. I’m not normal. But, I can change. I have to.

Just as I make it to the driveway of my house, I suddenly take in my surroundings. There is a car in the driveway. Dads car. He’s home. My heart sinks. I never asked to go out, but I hope he isn’t too mad. Maybe he’ll just send me to my room for the night, call it good. But I realize how wrong I was once I open the door and get hit head on with the smell of cheap booze and heavy tobacco. Whenever he has both, it’s bad. 

“Hey dad. You’re home early.” I say, shutting the door, thanking whatever God is looking after me that my voice doesn’t waver. 

“Yeah, ‘n you’re not.” He slurs, clumsily getting out of his chair. “You were out with that _friend_.” 

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway, “No, I was out with my mates. Mike had a party at his place ‘cause we won our biggest game.”

“Oh, so you’re fuckin’ more than one boy now, are ya?” He stumbles towards me, his breath reeks, and the slurring is only getting worse.

“N-no! We just had a couple drinks is all. Talked about rugby. N-normal guy stuff, I swear!” I step back and hit the front door just as my dad closes in on me. 

“Nah, you’re a freak. You like fuckin’ boys, I know. Betcha have come leakin’ out your ass n’ everything.” My heart is beating so fast I can’t tell if it’s stopped or leaped out my chest.

“N-n-n-” Is all I can get out before he grabs at my jeans roughly. And I know then that my heart has stopped. 

“I’ll just check, huh? You probably like this, don’t ya? Havin’ a man grab at you.” 

“Please, stop.” I plead, my voice small, and shaking just like his. I try to push him away once he undoes the button, but he grabs my hands, holding them hard above my head. “Stop!” I cry out again, with a little more force this time.

With one hand, both my jeans and pants are yanked down to my ankles. “Oh, I see.” He says, blatantly staring at my penis. “You are quite big, that's how you get those boys to sleep you.” 

“No.” My voice is barely above a whisper. I try fighting, thrashing my hips, but its useless, I know.

“Don’t fight it. You want this, freak. You asked for this. You want to fuck men, this is what you get.” Before I get another chance to protest, I'm spun around, my arms still locked in my dads hands, but this time on my back. Giving him more room to work.

He trails his calloused fingers down the crack of my arse, with no grace or hint of gentleness. He grazes over the pucker of my hole, and I can't contain the pained whimper that escapes my lips. It was an accident, and its taken the wrong way.

“You do like this, you whore. Is this what those _mates_ of yours did?” I don’t get to answer, because right after that, his first finger is thrust inside me, and it hurts. Fire spreading everywhere. I’m vaguely aware that I’m yelling out. 

“Stop, stop, stop.” I say, an endless plea. Tears are staining my cheeks, my voice is hoarse, and I hurt everywhere. But just as a third finger makes it’s way dryly inside me, I hear a sharp crack and everything stops. He falls backwards. Letting go of my hands, his fingers leaving my entrance. I fall down too. I sink as far as I can into the floor, sobbing, in pain, and full of fear and rage. I feel a soft touch on my shoulder, and I leap half way across the room.

“Sh! John. John! Its ok, its only me.” Harry says, her voice soothing. “He-he’s done. You need to go. Here.” She hands me a plastic bag with enough clothes for about three days. All I can do is look at her, tears still falling from my eyes on their own accord. “You need to go. You can’t say here.”

“Neither can you.” My voice cracks, sounding as broken as I feel.

“I’ll be ok. Leave now.” When I make no attempt, she quietly walks over to me and pulls me up. I stand there, swaying slightly. But I don’t want to disappoint her too, so I don’t fall back down like my legs are begging me to do. She gently pulls up my pants, followed by my jeans. Putting them nicely in place, and buttoning and zipping them. “Go back to Mike's place. Stay there tonight. Then call that scholarship lady tomorrow and tell her you accept. Don’t come back here John. I don’t want to see you killed.” 

Harry’s eyes are pleading with me to do something. I don’t know what else to do. So I listen to her. I clutch my plastic bag close to my chest, and I walk out the front door, wincing slightly at the pain, and not saying a word. I don’t know how. But Harry doesn’t complain. She watches me leave. And its the first time I realize just how fucked up our life is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a particularly difficult chapter to write, and I've never written non-con before (it's something new I'm trying) so I would appreciate comments and criticisms if you have them!


	4. Chapter 4

“Good, we’re finally alone.” He whispers in my ear, coming right up beside me. His fingers dancing across my waist. I jump back, the touch burning through the fabric.

“Y-yeah. My scholarship pays for a single dorm.” My cheeks flush, I back away towards the desk in the corner of the small dorm room. 

“I’ve seen you looking at me John.” He tells me, his voice dripping with seduction. “I’ve seen you wanting me.” He’s in front of me now, hands on my waist again. I feel a rush of panic swimming through my veins. Its just like that night.

“N-n-no. I-I thought we were studying?” I ask, every muscle freezing under his touch.

“We both know you’re going to get an A on this test.” He tells me, then gets close to my ear. I stop breathing. “Why don’t you show me what you can do?” He whispers into my ear again, licking the shell as he grabs for my belt.

“No!” I say, more force behind the word this time. “No, I’m not gay. Sorry, I can’t”

“Not gay? You sure love staring at my back side much more than any straight man I’ve ever seen.” He smiles, grabbing my wrist, bringing my hand to his arse. “Relax, John, you’re in college, you get to experiment.”

I wish I had the power to lie to myself. Say that his arse didn’t feel fan-fucking-tastic in my hand. He’s the first I’ve touched since James. But that’s not what I think about. All I can feel are my dads fingers on me. Dad grabbing my hips with feather light touches. Dad lowering his head to-

“No!” I say again, pushing away. “I really can’t. I can’t do this. Lets just study.” My voice is strained, but not lacking any power. He stops.

“You know what? I just remembered I have to meet someone.” And without so much as a good bye, he’s gone. But that’s ok. I did the right thing, I’m not supposed to be gay.

~~

“John?” She brushes her delicate fingers through my hair. “John, did you hear me? I said I love you. Don’t you love me back?” 

I’m lying on my back in her large, plush bed, facing the ceiling. Her fingers running through my hair, her lips dancing over my face. She’s beautiful, really. Soft curves pressed full length against my torso, a fit waist pressing close to my now soft prick, daring it to try for another round, endlessly long legs intertwined with mine. We’re naked, both in bliss, happy with each others performance. I couldn’t ask for more. 

Her fingers don’t remind me of him. I try not to think that I’m having sex with women because they don’t make me think of dad touching me. Women are women. I love touching them, their round breasts, soft hips, wet opening. I’m with her because she loves me. She lets me touch her. Its the normal thing to do.

“I love you too.”

It’s a lie. But she hums sweetly, laying her head on my shoulder, falling asleep, completely content with the world.

~~

“I believe congratulations are in order, _Captain_.” He looks at me, his eyes full of lust, and his voice oozing with pure sex. Using my going up in rank for an excuse to sneak into my quarters.

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” I give a stiff nod, begging him with my eyes to put those utterly fantastic fingers on me. I want this. I can’t keep denying myself who I am.

He takes the bait, stepping unbelievably closer to me. “Any activities you and in mind, Captain?” He still isn’t touching me, the bastard. 

Two can play that game, though. I bring my mouth against the shell of his ear, not allowing myself to touch him either. “You could certainly put that mouth to good use, soldier.”

Before I even had the chance to even reconsider the innuendo I’ve just implied, he is on his knees, tearing off my belt. My trousers and pants fall to my ankles and his hands go straight for my arse. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for this.” He tells me before licking straight from root to tip on my already half hard cock. And damn I would be lying if I didn’t say this was bloody fantastic. He swallows me whole, knowing just what to do with that filthy tongue. 

I bite into my palm, trying desperately to keep the ridiculously high pitched whimpers coming out of my own mouth at bay. My brain can’t even comprehend anything past his beautiful mouth on my hot prick, making the hottest, wettest sounds as he fucks his own mouth on me. And, dammit, I’m so close. I can’t even speak, so I frantically pull on his hair, but he only takes me deeper, hollowing his cheeks. 

Right as I’m about to come, one of those sinful fingers on my arse snakes its way into my crack, brushing ever so slightly over my sensitive opening, and before I can stop myself, I stiffen completely and come hard down his throat.

But the touch reminds me of _him_ and as I fall down to the ground, I’m shaking. _You’re nothing but a freak_ on repeat in my head.

Dad was right. What the hell am I doing?

~~

_“John.”_

He’s so far away. Why can’t he come closer?

_“John, can you hear me? Stay with me.”_

I try to open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I’m just really tired. I want to ask if I can go to sleep. Just for a minute.

_“Keep your eyes open, mate! We’re getting another medic.”_

Another medic? But I’m already here. Maybe that means I should get up.

_“Stop moving John, you’re making the bleeding worse.”_

Whose bleeding? I don’t want anyone to bleed. I’ll stop moving. I wish he would come closer, he’s so far away.

_“His heart rate is to low! We need to stop the bleeding now! Get this damn bullet out of his shoulder!”_

He’s even farther away now. Why wont he just come here? 

_“John, stay with me dammit!”_

Don’t worry, I won’t go anywhere. I’m to tired. I can’t move. I’ll just close my eyes. Only for a minute. Then I’ll help them stop the bleeding. Whose bleeding? I’ll only close my eyes for a minute. Can’t he come here? He can lay down with me. We can sleep for a little while. The bleeding will stop.

_“Don’t you even fucking think about dying John -”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love John way to much. Why did I think angsty John was a good idea? I can't wait for something good to happen to him. Thank you to everyone whose sticking this one out! Let me know what you think so far!


	5. Chapter 5

I glance over the overpriced cafe menu. Knowing full well I won’t be eating anything, so I order coffee with a splash of milk. I take my cup and sit down in a booth near the back, out of the way so I can wait for Harry to show up. I haven’t visited since returning home after I was shot. Hell, I’ve barely spoken to her since I left home years ago. We just seemed to take what happened so differently. I took to finding not so serious girlfriends while taking more than serious risks. But low and behold, Harrys took up the family tradition, trying to drink herself to death and divorcing her wife. 

“Jonny!” I hear Harry chirp over the bustling noises of the cafe. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!” She pulls me up for a hug, a wide smile on her face, I give a half hearted hug and a pathetic smile in return. She doesn’t seem to notice.

We sit down and chat a bit, sipping our coffee’s and avoiding any real conversation. I felt things were going fine, until Harry decided that she wanted to play big sister. “How’s therapy going?” Figured it would only be a matter of time before she tried to pretend like she cared. It seems that's all everyone ever does, pretend to care.

“Fine.” I say blandly. Drinking the remainder of my coffee in one big gulp. Angrily glaring at the bottom of my cup, hoping it will refill itself and get me out of this situation.

“That's good.” Harry continues, not even noticing how much I don’t want to talk about this. “I was thinking that maybe since Clara moved out a couple weeks ago, I have extra room in my flat. And your bedsit must be awful. Maybe you can move in until you get back on your feet?”

“Ah, no thanks. I’ve actually been looking for a flat already.” Complete lie. “And I have a couple people I was thinking about asking about possibly being flatmates.” And, bold face lie number two.

“Oh, really? Tha'ts great! Therapy must really be going well then! Here.” Harry hands me over a small mobile. “I want to make sure we keep in touch. Let me know how the flat search goes.” Harry gives me a genuine smile. I take the mobile, and think maybe this is our chance to finally patch up our loose ends. Maybe Harry and I can actually function as siblings once again. 

We continue our smaller chit chat until Harry finishes her coffee, she makes me promise to set up my new phone and call her. And I do, and hope my promise is as sincere as it feels leaving my mouth. 

And, determined to make my best attempt at keeping my promise, the next day I go out and set up my mobile so it has just the basic talk and text plan. Enough to get a hold of Harry, or whomever really.

As soon as I get back to my flat its around four o’clock. I vaguely remember Harry telling me she had today off while we were chatting yesterday. So, to test out the new phone, I call Harry to let her know its all set up and make sure she has the new number, however, I soon realize I probably shouldn’t have called during a day off.

“‘Ello?” I hear my sister slur into the phone.

“Harry? Hey, its John.” 

“John! You’re calling me?” Harry sings, and I mean she literally sings, into the phone. “Didn’t recognize the number!”

“Yeah, I called to let you know I setup the mobile you gave me yesterday. Thank you by the way.” I try to keep my tone moderately normal. But the longer I’m talking to my sister, the more I’m realizing Harry’s more than just a little drunk.

“Oo-oh. Whatcha doin’ Jonny? Wanna come over and hang out? Clara’s goin’ to be here soon for some shit ‘er something. If we’re both drunk she’ll flip.” Harry asks me with a laugh.

“Harry, it’s four o’clock. I’m not going to your flat to get drunk and piss off your ex wife.”

“Fine, fine. Your loss.” Harry tells me, and I hear the faint sound of her drinking something. “Come on over after the bitch leaves.” 

I let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t really want to do that either.”

“Well you’re no fun!” Harry whines

“You don’t have to be drunk to have fun.” I know its a low blow, but why can’t Harry just understand I don’t want to get drunk with anyone in our family? Hell, all of us have proven to be angry drunks. Thank you dad, for sharing your genetics.

“Fine.” Harry says snobbishly, sounding like a bloody teenager. “I’m gonna go then, Jonny. You keep bein’ a stick in the mud. I’ll talk to you never!” Harry giggles at her own bad joke and hangs up before I even get a chance to think of saying good bye.

I lean back in my chair and run my hands over my face. Why is it that 90 percent of the time I’m talking to Harry she’s drunk? I hastily get up and decide to make myself a cup of tea. Anything to keep my mind from thinking too much. But that lasts a total of thirty seconds before I realized I’ve given my drunk sister my new number. And then the text messages start rolling in.

_ur stick in the mud_

_jonnys no fun_

_do u need to gte laid?? ___

_ur stressed huh???,?_

_bet if u got out of taht stupid room u could get a man_

_have som hot sex_

_hot gay sex ;)_

And that seventh drunk text was the last straw. I put the damn thing on silent, stick it in my pocket, and stiffly head out the door, not even caring where I go. 

I hobble around on my damn cane for no more than twenty minutes before I run into bloody Mike Stamford. We get some coffee, ready to catch up on all we’ve missed between uni and now. Talking about the war, Mikes teaching, the game that was on last night. Mostly light topics, helping me relax a bit.

“What about you, just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?” He asks casually, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I can’t afford London on an army pension.” I mutter glumly. Knowing full well my pension is looking more and more pathetic each day.

“Ah, you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else! That's not the John Watson I know.” Mike states chummily, and I give a forced smile in return.

“Yeah, I’m not that John Watson.” I mumble in response. Knowing there is so much that has changed since I’ve had the chance to call Mike my friend. 

“Couldn’t Harry help?”

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” I scoff, thinking back to the conversation, and multiple one sided text messages, we just had.

“I don’t know. You could get a flatshare or something.” He says lightly.

“Come on. Who’d want me for a flatmate?” I say, holding back the scowl threatening to take over my face. This conversation is really the last thing I want to talk about, especially with Mike of all people. And all he does is stare at me, like I’m missing some sort of joke. “What?” I ask, irritated now.

“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

“Who’s the first?”


	6. Chapter 6

“What’s wrong with my hand?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay even and controlled. I already know damn well what's wrong with it. But I won't say it. I won't think about it.

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand.” This man says. Like it means absolutely nothing. Just simply brushing over the fact I’m like _him_ now. I’ve got the tremors, might as well start drinking, raping my children while I’m at it. The fucker continues, This posh prick thinks he can just kidnap me and I’ll just listen to his stories or whatever. Well hes wrong.

“Who the hell are you?” I spit, not even bothering to sound polite anymore, cutting off whatever it was he was saying. To hell with this guy. “How do you know that?” 

Even if I wanted to listen to this guy, I couldn’t. I’m practically seeing red, and every cell in my body is telling me to get the hell out of this damn building. So I do. 

_“Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson.”_

~~

After the first week living with Sherlock, I can honestly say, if anything else, my life is much more interesting. What with body parts in our fridge, late night cases, early morning violin concerts, downright childish tantrums, and all other variants similar, Sherlock has proven to regularly participate in. 

But, its such an improvement to what I had before, I’ve quickly realized I wouldn’t give this up for the world. I’m living again. Really living, not just following the motions, or going head first into a dangerous situation (like being shot at, hm?) just for a cheap thrill, not caring if I come back. Sherlock helped me come back to life. I feel better than I have in years, decades maybe.

It took less than twenty four hours. Less than twenty four hours to fuck it up. Because that’s all I can ever do in any situation that could ever possibly be good for me. 

I didn’t mean to do it. I honestly didn’t. But once I saw Sherlock holding that stupid pill, with that stupid cabbie laughing at him, in that stupid secluded building, with Sherlock trying to prove his stupid genius, I knew I was done for. Either I let Sherlock prove himself, and probably die, or I shoot the madman holding him hostage (sort of), only proving to myself that I did the one thing I wasn’t supposed to do in this situation.

So, I shot him. I shot the cabbie, and fell in love with the man I can’t have. 

I fell in love with a man who won’t love me back, who won’t love anyone back.

And, apparently, my ridiculous, inconvenient, illogical, stupid love, is obvious to the entire world, except for Sherlock. Seeing as I’m trying my best to do us both a favor by letting everyone know I’m not gay. It’s best for the both of us if I stay that way. Sherlock can’t love someone like me, and I’m not supposed to be gay anyways. I’ll half ass dating women for the rest of my life, and Sherlock will… Do whatever it is Sherlock does. I’ve only known the man for a week, maybe there is someone out there who can… Peek his interest, so to speak.

The thought stings much more than it ought too, but I push the pain down, knowing I can’t have someone as good as Sherlock. That’s how it is, and its okay, really.

~~

_No subject_  
 _to: John Watson_  
 _from: Thomas Watson_

_Dear Jonny,_  
 _Hello! I know, its been a while since we last spoke, and the news I have probably should be given to you in person but your blog only gave your email as contact information so here it is._  
 _Your dad passed away last night. His liver failed, and they couldn’t get a replacement in time. He was too far gone as it was._  
 _His service is next week Thursday, I’ve got an announcement in the paper, be sure to look for it. I know after your mom left, my brother had a bit of a hard time taking care of you kids, and I wasn’t really there to help, and I’m sorry. But I know my brother, and I’m sure he did everything he could to bring you two up the best he could._  
 _Anyway, hope to see you there. Pass the information along to Harry, I don’t even know how to get a hold of her._  
 _Thomas_

 

_re:No subject_  
 _to: Thomas Watson_  
 _from: John Watson_

_Dear Uncle Tom,_  
 _I’m sorry to hear your brother has passed away. I’m afraid I can’t make the service though, I’ve got an important meeting Thursday that cannot be rescheduled. I’ll pass the news on to Harry though, she might be able to make it._  
 _John_

 

_Harry, Uncle Tom just emailed me about dad, I’ll forward you the email, probably shouldn’t text it to you. JW_

“I’ve never seen you on your laptop for such a long period of time with out your blog open. Whats the occasion?” Sherlock teases, his deep baritone vibrating the whole room.

“Oh. Uh, my dad’s passed away. My uncle Tom was just letting me know.” I state blandly, closing the laptop after forwarding the email to Harry and pocketing my mobile, not really waiting for a response from her.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Sherlock says, using that voice he has when he tries to comprehend emotions like most other people, furrowing his brows and looking me over. “Are you going to his service?”

“No. Best not. Maybe I’ll do the shopping or something that day.” I give Sherlock a smile and get up. “Tea?” I ask, my mood suddenly cheery. Sherlock gives me a questioning look, but eventually nods in response, then takes his place on the couch, lounging in his pajamas even though its almost one o’clock. But its perfect.

~~

_One new text message:_

_Are you gonna come out of the closet now that dads dead?_

_Delete message?: [yes] no_

_Message deleted. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely made up all my info on Johns uncle, I don't know any head canons on him, and didn't feel like looking it up, so there you go lol.
> 
> Also, sorry about the relatively short length of the last two chapters, these were mostly fixing loose ends, but I'm hoping the quick update makes up for it a little bit!


	7. Chapter 7

“John. Oh, John, right there! Fuck, that's it!” Claire moans under me. She’s scratching her long, purple painted finger nails down my back. Not hard enough to break skin but enough to leave pink, raised lines. 

_“Fuck me hard, John.”_ I remember oh so clearly. She invited me up for coffee after our date. Said her flatmate was out of town and she had the flat to herself all night. I wasn't really in the mood for sex (well, honestly, I wasn’t in the mood for sex with a woman), but I had had a good time with Claire, and thought maybe this would lead to a second date. 

“‘M close.” I slur into her ear, nipping gently at the lobe, then taking a lick of the outside of the shell. She’s tight, and her long legs wrap around my waist, urging me to pound into her harder. I grunt and pick up my pace. I’m thrusting in earnest now, but my cock isn’t quite up to date on the situation, and without thinking about it, I pull out my never fail trick to come, because over the years I’ve found I just can’t orgasm with women on the spot. But, because I’m not gay, I need to follow through.

I take Clare's hand with my own and run it down my abdomen, stopping at my navel, and leave her hand there until she gets the hint and starts running her fingers over the bellybutton and trail of hair there. I quickly close my eyes and imagine those thin fingers are a hard cock, pushing persistent into my abdomen, begging for release. I shift my hips ever so slightly, just so the angle feels a little lower, like I’m pounding into a tight arse hole, and not a soft, wet vagina.

The fantasy is working wonderfully, and I’m quickly moaning into her neck, harder than ever. Women usually don’t second guess my technique. Think nothing more of it than a simple navel fetish. However, before I come, I realize my grave mistake half a second too late. 

Claire has soft, loose curly hair. Wonderful, bouncy, shampoo smelling hair. Curly hair thats cropped at just chin length. Which wouldn’t have been a problem, seeing as its dirty blonde in color. But, conveniently, my eyes are closed, and I’m trying my best to imagine I’m pounding roughly into a mans body, my mind goes to the one place I’ve deemed untouchable since the day I shot that damn cabbie.

And before I can stop the treacherous thoughts from poisoning my mind, or the sinful words from escaping my lips, I’ve already trusted deep inside, releasing myself into the condom.

“Sherlock!”

I’m to scared to move, to scared to breath. Did I really just do that? In all the years of imagining men while I’m balls deep inside a women, I’ve never thought of a real face. Just the sensations. 

I’m still inside Claire. Now fully flaccid, with both of us breathing heavy. My face is buried in her shoulder, and even if I wanted to move, or speak, or do anything other that melt or disappear, it would be physically impossible at this point. I imagine we stay in this position before Claire ventures first. Her voice surprisingly calm and collected.

“You know what John?” She starts. Voice low and controlled. “I told my flatmate about you. Told her I had a date with this amazing sounding guy. Wanna know what she told me?” She pauses, obviously waiting for a response. But I don’t play along, I stay exactly the way I am. But she eventually continues. “She told me that she could tell you were gay without even meeting you. I told her no, hes completely straight. And even if my ‘gaydar’ or whatever you want to call it was broken, hes too much of a nice guy to lead me on like that.” She let out a pathetic huff of a laugh. “Guess I was wrong. Get out.” Claire finishes. Still completely calm, and obviously talking about her flat, not just her.

Without saying anything, I remove myself from her, taking off the used condom, tying it off, and dropping it in the small waste basket in the corner. Grab my clothes spewn half haphazardly across the floor, and meticulously put them on. Claire stays on her bed. Still naked, not even bothering to hide the fact that she's watching me. Her eyes full of disappointment. 

When I finally manage to put myself together enough to leave the flat, I give her a stiff nod and a forced smile. Then walk out the door, leaving a beautiful, naked, women on her bed, so I can go back home to the flatmate I’m desperately in love with. Its been a month since I’ve shot the cabbie and sealed my fate. I asked Claire out for the specific reason of getting over Sherlock. And, I would say I was doing a decent job. Up until the moment of truth.

But, as I catch a cab (after that ordeal there is no way in hell I can handle taking the tube) I think maybe this is the best way for this to happen. I mean, I imagine its best I realize right away trying to date is a fucking joke. If Claire hadn’t been so insistent on having sex the first date, rather than say, having sex a few months from now when both of us are in a committed relationship and I realize too late I still have feelings for Sherlock.

As soon as the cab pulls up to 221b, I throw the notes at the driver and rush into the front door. Wanting to just write this night off as a disaster and go straight to bed.

I walk into the kitchen to find Sherlock sitting in exactly the same position as I left him. Hunched over his microscope, looking at some sort of fecal matter that he insists will solve this extremely important cold case hes been looking at in his free time.

I attempt to shuffle past him, not even bothering with a goodnight. But of course tonight is the one night all month Sherlock decides to, well, possibly attempt to give me a goodnight, or something of the sort. But all is failed when he takes one look at me.

“John? I assumed you were the type of lover to stay with the women after sexual intercourse. Stay for a cuddle, or whatever. Never picked up any ‘take off and go after a one night stand’ vibes.” Sherlock says, looking me over quickly. “But, of course, there is always something.” He mumbles the last bit, looking away sheepishly.

“Uh, yeah. No you’re right. I’m not much of a one night stand sort of bloke. And I do say for a cuddle. I was kicked out.” I mumble the last part. Still a bit embarrassed. But, no need in Sherlock thinking I’m sleeping around. But I’ll conveniently leave out any important information.

“What? Why?” Sherlock asks, sounding much more intrigued than I figured he would. Looking up from his fecal matter once more.

“Ah. I’d rather not talk about it. I’m just calling it a bad night, going to bed, and trying my best to forget it ever happened.” I say, sounding about as exasperated as I feel.

Sherlock takes a good look at me, probably deducing me from the inside out. And I hope that big brain of his can’t possibly deduce what I’ve done. Sherlock looks like he really wants to ask me a follow up on my lack of participation in his deductive game involving my love life, but he must deem it either not worth it, or is deciding to respect my personal boundaries. 

Sherlock looks back to his microscope, gives a grunt of approval or something, and that's about as close to a good night as I’m going to get apparently. So, with that, I shuffle off to bed before Sherlock changes his mind and decides I’m interesting once again.

I get the luxury of sleep for upwards of three hours before Sherlock bursts through my bedroom door. “John!” Sherlock yells, his voice dripping with excitement. “John get up! We’ve got a locked room murder! You’ve got ten minutes to get dressed and make us coffee!”

And then Sherlock is out the door before I can grumble something unintelligible at him. So, instead I just sigh defeatedly and grab some clothes. This will be my fourth crime scene since the pink lady case. I wish it was because Sherlock actually wants me there, but it always seems like I’m dragged along because its more convenient for Sherlock. Whether he needs coffee (like this case apparently), company for a long cab ride, or whatever else the git finds half helpful about me.

I’ve just barely poured two cups of fresh coffee before Sherlock grabs his cup and me and drags us out the front door into the cold dark night. Luckily though, we quickly get a cab and the crime scene only takes about ten minutes to get to since traffic isn’t all that heavy at 3:30 in the morning. 

“Seems we’ve got one man, mid thirties, killed in his locked bedroom in his flat. His wife found him when she made it home from her business trip at about 2:00 this morning. Lestrade insists its right on par with my interests.” Sherlock tells me as we walk up to the police tape.

I hum something of a response as I take another sip of my cooling coffee. We easily enter the crime scene, only getting a half hearted glare from a rather sleepy looking Sally Donovan. 

“Glad you could make it.” Greg tells Sherlock, walking up to us. “Its got us all baffled.”

Without much more, Greg ushers Sherlock and I into the room, and sets Sherlock free (but not before Sherlock gives me his now empty cup), so to speak. I stay back a ways, sipping on the last little bit of my coffee, not wanting the warmth to be over. I only get about two minutes to myself however, before Greg comes walking up to me.

“I’m surprised you’re here, mate.” Greg says with a smile. Over the month Greg and I have become something of friends. Both catching a pint together, or chatting at crime scenes. “Didn’t you say you had a date tonight? I thought maybe you’d get lucky.” He tells me, wiggling his eyebrows promiscuously.

“I, uh. Yeah, actually. Made it to her flat, but.” I started, but didn’t quite know how to finish. I wasn’t anywhere near close enough to Greg to let him know my feelings for Sherlock, or even to let him know I think about men that way. I don’t want everyone to know, because I’m not supposed to be gay. I let everyone know that early on. No one close to me or Sherlock can know. And, anyways, the only person who knows is Harry, and that's because of the mistakes I made as a child.

“Oh no, you mean Sherlock dragged you out of a good shag for this?” Gregs eyes go wide. “I knew he was a bastard, but I didn’t think he would be a total cock blocker too.” He tisks, and looks over at Sherlock bent over the body, paying special attention to the dead man's finger tips.

“What?” I say, looking at Greg, but before I can say it wasn’t Sherlock, the man in question comes barging into the conversation.

“This was textbook Gavin, really.” Sherlock starts, as Greg huffs at the name he’s been given. Sherlock promptly ignores it. “You will find the weapon hidden in a loose floorboard under the bed. And when found it will have fingerprints leading to a seemingly random man. This man will be the lover the wife is having an affair with. She wanted to get rid of the husband, take his life insurance, and then continue with her new man. But she’s a little cleverer than that, having set up the mystery man to cover her own tracks in case the weapon is caught. It was his idea, so she probably only assumed it fair that he take the fall if she made a mistake.”

Greg and I stare in awe for a few seconds before he bellows, “David, check under the bed for a loose floorboard.” Snapping me out of it. And, sure enough, less than a minute later, the man Greg called David has pulled out a large knife that is wrapped in a blood soaked cloth.

“Brilliant.” I huff under my breath, looking at Sherlock who has the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. Barely noticeable. But any sort of indication of it is gone once Lestrade looks his way.

Lestrade takes the weapon back outside, talking to some colleagues on his way out. Sherlock grabs my hand to catch my attention, sending butterflies all down my stomach, but I quickly swallow them down. “I need to look over the body one more time. It will take a few minutes. Come on, John.” Sherlock tells me quickly, then lets go of my hand to go back to the body, leaving me to walk after him.

“Look at his fingertips. Do you know what sort of instrument makes those marks?” Sherlock asks, taking the man's hand and inspecting the tips of the index and middle finger.

“It looks like the puncture is from a needle. However I don’t know what kind of needle would leave bruising like that. Maybe the puncture and bruising were made separately.” I say, furrowing my brow. “But that wouldn’t make any sense, the bruising and puncture wounds look fresh. Almost like a sort of torture technique.” I say, not really thinking too much of the implication.

I can visibly see Sherlock soaking in what I have told him, and then suddenly something clicks. His eyes open wide and he’s running out the door.

“Lestrade!” He’s yelling. “It wasn’t the wife!” And then I’m running after him.

I make it out to Sherlock rapidly telling Lestrade whatever it was that he got out of the fingertip idea. I catch him saying it wasn’t the wife or her lover, but the women having an affair with the husband. He was going off on how the man's lover was torturing him into leaving his wife, and when he still refused she got angry and lashed out. Just as he was going more into details Donovan nearly scares me out of my skin. 

“Heard the freak not only drags you along to these, but he cock blocks you too.” Her voice is smug, and I just about want to smack the smirk off her face. But shes caught me off guard and I just stare at her until she continues. “I know you're not gay, but you better watch out, if he's not letting you get any, it may be because he wants you for himself.” She says, her voice heavy with innuendo. 

I stare at her open mouthed until Sherlock tells me we are done here, and drags me back to go get a cab to Baker Street. Its not until we are in the car that I realize Lestrade has already gotten it around that its Sherlock's fault I couldn’t hold a date, and apparently Sally is under the assumption that Sherlock is the one smitten with me. 

But, little does everyone know, its not Sherlock. Its me, I’m the freak. I can’t have a normal date, with a normal woman, with a normal outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I'm crap at case fics, so my apologies for the attempt, I tried to make it more based on the story rather than the actual case.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s a quiet night in, a kind of night I’ve only experienced a few times here at Baker Street. Sherlock has just finished his latest case only a handful of hours ago. It took no less than ten minutes of walking through our front door for him to change into his sleep clothes and dressing gown, and then proceed to fall asleep face first on the couch. 

I love these times. I get the uninterrupted chance to see Sherlock in a way no one else does. While sleeping, hes both vulnerable and soft. Nothing like the cold exterior he shows the rest of the world. I can see the innocence in his face. His eyes have softened to show how young this impossible man is. All the angles and jagged lines that seem to make up his entire being curl together, showing thin, alabaster skin. His position is open. Almost like I could curl up beside him, letting us both sleep the rest of the night away, wrapped up in each others gentle embrace. 

Sherlock mumbles something in his sleep, turning slightly so the back of his head is now facing me where I am on my chair. I smile lightly, wondering what sort of dreams a man of Sherlock's brilliance is capable of having.

I get up from my chair, knowing from experience that after a few hours of sleep, Sherlock's system will require food more than sleep so he will most likely be waking up within the hour. 

I call in at a Thai restaurant that Sherlock and I both enjoy, ordering what we usually get. They promise to deliver within a half hour. Glancing at the clock, its just after seven. I find that now that I’m up I might as well start some tea. Maybe the sweet aroma will awaken Sherlock. I boil the water, grab two bags of tea, add a splash of milk to mine, two sugars to Sherlock's.

I take both mugs out to the living room, setting Sherlock's on the coffee table where it will be easily seen once he wakes up, and I take mine back to my chair. I sit quietly, sipping the still too hot tea, attempt to blow on it to reduce the temperature, but only succeeding in disturbing the steam dancing away from the open mug, and proceeding to take another semi-useless sip, seeing as I can’t taste anything at the temperature the tea is at currently. 

After consuming half my tea the doorbell goes off five times. I must have lost track of the time, I could have sworn its only been about ten minutes, not thirty. But, I set my tea down, grab my wallet and run for the door, that still seems to be ringing. Is this guy in a big hurry or something? 

After what feels like the millionth ring, I swing open the door to find, not a Thai delivery boy, but instead a very intoxicated Harry falling into my arms.

“Harry?” I say confused. “What are you doing here?” 

“Fight with Clara.” She slurs heavily, her glassy eyes looking up to mine. “Wanna hang with you.” She smiles.

“Look at you! You can barely stand! Shit Harry, have you been drinking since this morning?” I ask, my voice raising with my frustration.

Harry scrunches her eyebrows, pushing herself off me, swaying slightly before grabbing the still open door for support. “Dunno. But only had four ‘er five Jonny.”

I sigh heavily. “Fine, fine. Your way. I don’t even know if its safe to send you home like this. Go on upstairs, try not to wake Sherlock, alright?” 

“Your boyfriend sleeping?” Harry slurs happily, her tone teasing, but I can tell in her eyes that she knows how I feel about him, even if no one else does.

I just roll my eyes playfully at her and gently push her still swaying body up the stairs. I shut the door and begrudgingly follow, hoping Sherlock is still asleep and I have the time to convince Harry not to blab that I’m rather smitten with my flatmate. 

To my luck Sherlock is still sound asleep, but now facing back out into the living space again, his hair spewed across his face and hands tucked under his head as a makeshift pillow.

“Damn Jonny, if I weren't gay too I’d take him from you.” Harry teases again, staring directly at Sherlock's arse, then to me.

“He’s not mine.” I grumble, pushing her to sit in my chair. “But I doubt you’re his type anyway. Or, rather, no one is his type.” Before Harry has the chance to come back at me with a witty remark, I rush into the kitchen and grab a large glass out of the cabinet and fill it with water.

I had planned on looking for a couple of biscuits to get in Harry's gut as well but before I could even think about it Sherlock's sleep addled voice broke my thoughts.

“John!” He yells out, sounding confused.

I walk out to the living room once again to find Harry sitting on Sherlock's back and grabbing his hair. “John!” Sherlock says a bit more forcefully. “Get your intoxicated sister off of me.”

It takes a lot of effort, and I mean a lot, to not simply stand there and laugh at what I’ve just walked into. Harry looking as if shes closer to falling on top of Sherlock than anything, holding his wild mess he refers to as hair, Sherlock quickly glancing between Harry and I, trying to decide who to send imaginary daggers at with his eyes. 

I walk over to Harry, not daring to speak or else I’ll be caught up in a fit of laughter, but most likely still supporting a smirk I can’t hide, and loosen her fingers. “Harry.” I start, trying to regain my lost voice. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask, keeping the humor out.

“‘S soft.” She says almost dreamily. “Wanted to run my fingers through it.”

“You do realize you’re pulling his hair, don’t you?” I add, walking her back over to my chair.

“Was fallin’. Had to catch myself.” She slurs again, looking as if she’s going to fall asleep. And when I finally set her down I figure that's exactly what shes going to do, so I attempt to go back and make sure Sherlock isn’t planning her murder, but she sloppily catches my wrist first. “Jonny, I like ‘em more than James.”

I can feel my heart flutter at his name, but I ignore it. I don’t want Sherlock thinking the name is important and trying to pry information about him out of me. “You should sleep Harry.” Is all I give in attempt for a response.

“Told you not to fall in love with the first guy you had sex with. There's always someone better.” Harry says, softly, but full of sisterly love. Not even a trace of her drunken slurring, just her love.

I squeeze Harry's hand, giving her the most genuine smile I’ve had on my face since before dad. “Thank you.” It comes out as a whisper, but it doesn't really matter, she's already fallen asleep. 

When I turn around I expected to see Sherlock looking over me like one of his experiments in the fridge, analyzing the new data about my true sexual orientation. But I’m shocked to see he looks completely baffled. His eyes wide, looking over my face, and back at Harry. Like he truly didn’t expect that coming.

“I, uh, should go find her a blanket, yeah?” I say awkwardly, breaking the silence, and running off before I can get asked a million and one questions. But I’m surprised that even when I come back, Sherlock still doesn’t ask. He sits in his spot on the couch, quietly looking at me. Almost like he's soaking in the information, rather than his usual analytical routine of new data. And after covering Harry, it doesn’t take long for the Thai to show up.

I quietly grab plates and cutlery, setting up a place for us to eat on the coffee table. Sherlock still seems to be in some sort of shock, so, determined to not over think, or let it get the better of me, I dish him up, and hand him is food. 

For maybe five or ten minutes the room is silent. Other than the sounds of me eating of course. Sherlock, even though he’s holding onto the food I’ve given him, seems to not have even noticed it’s there. He’s still looking at me, but I can see the gears working in his head again. He’s looking harder, like now that Harry has given him this information he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“Sherlock, you need to eat. I know its been at least 24 hours since your last meal. Probably even longer.” I say, pointing at his plate, trying to direct his attention off of me. And it works for about a minute and a half. He stares at the pile of food as I finish mine. 

Just as I give up on him and I stand up to take care of the dinner mess, Sherlock's voice nearly startles me.

“But.” He starts, still staring at the meal like it somehow holds whatever answers he’s looking for. “You’re not gay.” This time he looks up at me, confusion written on his face once again.

“I lied.” I say, barley above a whisper. Not knowing whether I’ve confessed this to Sherlock or myself. I give a flat smile, and finish taking care of the mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll apologize in advance, but now that school has started back up it will probably be a little longer in between updates! But do keep an eye out! I'll be sure to update as quickly as my schedule allows! :)


	9. Chapter 9

As I lay on my bed, I stare up at the ceiling, going over every detail. There seems to be a crack in the paint, only about two or two and a half centimeters long, and not deep enough to go through the sheet rock. In the corner there is a stain of some sort, don't know how that got there. It kind of looks like a gun if I angle my head right.

I try to get some sort of meaning out of what I'm seeing. But it's just my bedroom ceiling. Nothing special. Only Sherlock Holmes could make nothing into something. Turn a crack and a gun shaped stain into a work of art. 

And, only Sherlock Holmes could make me feel like I've filled up with helium, bursting and ready to float softly away. My stomach full of butterflies, my heart pounding in my chest. 

The corners of my mouth turning up, creating a genuine smile. Sherlock Holmes would let me fly away, feeling spectacular, amazing, beautiful, loved, and on top of the world.

And only Sherlock Holmes would forget the power and destruction he holds inside himself. He would leave me on top of the world, feeling lighter than air, only to forget me, and allow me to float along, thinking it's only a matter of time before he saves me.

But he won't come. He'll leave me there, and soon the sensation of flying will only turn into falling, and Sherlock Holmes won't be there to catch me. 

He'll be there to study the corpse he's left behind. 

~~

I tug my jacket tighter around my abdomen, trying to suck the warmth out of it, or secure whatever warmth I have left inside my body. It's bloody well freezing out here, and it seems the only person able to prance around in this god forsaken place is Sherlock. He's hopped, skipped, and jumped around the dead woman for the past twenty minutes, purposely rambling quietly enough so I can't hear him. Not that it really matters, I'm still about four meters away and blatantly ignoring his graceful dance, so I'm not listening for him. The only reason I'm here, I suppose, is out of habit.

I think about how nice my bed would have been at this hour. I was yanked out of my extremely warm duvet, not given enough time to properly clothe myself for hell freezing over, and practically carried into a cab. And the whole time, Sherlock didn't utter one single word in my direction. It's been that way since before. I've never regretted an action so much.

Why?

Why would I let my guard down? Why would I tell the one person who's accepted me the one detail of my life that's never been accepted before?

I thought…

I thought maybe Sherlock was different. I mean, why would he care if I liked men?

Well, that's simple.

I'm disgusting. Of course Sherlock won't talk to me, he can't even look at me anymore. He probably thinks I fantasize about him.

Oh god. What have I done?

Sherlock, my one real friend can't even look at me because my dad's death let me put down my guard. Harry blabbing my secret gave me confidence.

I thought that maybe because she's gay I could be too.

But I'm not Harry. I'm John. Not gay John. I thought it was dad all these years. That dad was the reason I wasn't allowed to be gay. But the truth is, is it's me. It's all my fault!

Everything is always my fault…

If I would have listened to dad all those years ago I would have known who I was. But instead it's been a guessing game.

Boy. Girl. Boy. Girl.

Who do I choose?

Boy. Girl. Boy. Girl.

Of course, boy is the easy option. Boy is what I thought I want.

Boy. Girl. Boy. Girl.

But boy is wrong. I need to choose a girl. That's the correct choice, and boys are out there to tempt me into looking like a fool. To make me a fool. That's what I've been.

A fool. Of course Sherlock didn't accept me. He knew I choose wrong. Well, maybe if I tell him I'll choose differently next time it will be okay. Maybe he will forgive my mistake.

I can only hope.

"John, you all right, mate?" I hear Greg's soft concern, dragging me out of my internal conflict.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I'm fine." I try, sounding about as distracted as I feel.

"You seem a bit off. I mean, it's bloody freezing, and early as hell. But that usually doesn't seem to bother you." Greg says thoughtfully. He glances at Sherlock before continuing. "You and Sherlock have a bit of a row?"

"That obvious?" I say in between a stiff laugh, looking away from Greg and Sherlock, trying to desperately distance myself from the situation.

I feel a warm steady hand on my shoulder. The sensation is enough to bring me back down to earth. "Sherlock's just an eccentric twat. Don't let him get to you."

I finally look over to Greg and give him a weak, but genuine smile. Maybe he's right, maybe Sherlock will get over this and we can talk about it.

But just as I felt a drop of my confidence back, the universe just had to go and break me down again, didn't it?

"Ah, John. Didn't realize once you told me your little secret you'd become so scandalous." Sherlock says, finally ignoring the dead body, spitting each word in my direction.

An all I can do is stare, horrified. I didn't think Sherlock would be the type of bloke to go around taunting my mistakes like that.

"It was the boyfriend." Sherlock starts, looking at Greg now, and pretending I'm not there at all. "He broke up with her, but still feeling like she belonged to him, when she went out on a date with someone else he went to take her back. He'll tell you it was an accident. Probably was. Doesn't make it any less of a murder though." Sherlock says quickly. Then glances between Greg and I rapidly before speaking again. "Was this the reason you told me your secret? I wouldn't have really pegged Greg as your type John,” Sherlock says with a scoff, “but that doesn't matter. Ever since the divorce Greg has been pining after Mycroft, you don't have a chance. I guess that means you told me for nothing, hm?"

I couldn't believe Sherlock was doing this. I could feel Greg's eyes boring a hole in the back of my head, but I couldn't take my eyes off Sherlock's beautiful mouth. That beautiful, treacherous, horrifyingly honest mouth.

"Told you for nothing?" I manage to squeak out, my voice not even recognizable to my own ears.

"Yes. I may not have caught on to you being gay, John. But believe it or not I made the decision to trust you and your word along the way. And now I see that was clearly the wrong choice. Won't be making that mistake again."

As I watched Sherlock walk away, flaring his coat, chin held high, my heart dropped into my stomach. Every nerve ending in my body was on edge.

What the hell was that? I was sweating, but chilled to the bone. My heart was racing, but I couldn't move. My mind was going a million miles an hour, but I had nothing to say.

"John? I didn't know you were gay. Is this what's bothered you and Sherlock?" I hear Greg, pulling me out of my thoughts once again.

But this time, not even his soothing voice could help. I was scared and betrayed. If Sherlock couldn't understand, Greg sure as hell wouldn't.

So I did the only thing I could.

I ran away from my biggest nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! What are our boys to do with such emotional drama running around them?! 
> 
> I'll keep trying to update as quickly as possible, but my classes are super hard this term so if you're following this fic, please be patient and awesome and spectacular! And I promise I will give you updates in return as fast as humanly possible!! :3


	10. Chapter 10

I quickly found I honestly had no place to go. It was just barely six in the morning, and with the temperature below freezing I wasn’t about to wander aimlessly along the icy slick roads; I’d already been doing that for about ten minutes and my toes were already pins and needles. So I stopped for a second to collect my thoughts and come up with some sort of game plan.

I could go to Harry?

Like hell she would be up at this hour though, and even if I could manage to wake her up (which, seeing as she’s the heaviest sleeper I know I highly doubt that), she’s most likely hungover and wouldn’t be any fun to hang around.

Find a 24 hour diner?

Seemed like a good option to me. I could warm up and get some breakfast. Take my mind off of the past couple days.

Not like that would really happen. It’s all I’ve thought about since Harry opened her fat, drunk, mouth and told Sherlock my dirty secret.

Maybe I could just go home and beg for Sherlock's forgiveness?

That was it! I could just explain my mistake! Of all people, Sherlock is the most logical man I know. He will surely understand that I’ve only had a minor lapse in judgment. I can tell him I’ll even date women again. He doesn’t know how many times I’ve messed up, so maybe he won’t be as harsh as dad always was. 

Excited that I finally had something that could possibly work out, maybe even in my best interest, I hailed down the first taxi I saw. 

The ride wasn’t long, but I spent it perfecting what I needed to say. 

_“Sherlock, I know it was wrong to tell you I’m gay. I never should have, but Harry had surprised me. Just give me one more chance and I promise you can trust me! If it makes you feel more comfortable I will continue to date women. I’ll prove to you I can be normal.”_

It sounded perfect in my head, but that didn’t help the drop in my stomach when I finally entered the door to 221b and saw Sherlock flopped on the couch in his dressing gown, not yet asleep.

I took a hesitant step into the room and cleared my throat to get Sherlock's attention.

Sherlock lifted his head about an inch and a half off the couch in response, glaring at me with one eye open through his thick curls. 

“Sh-Sherlock?” I started, scowling at treachery in my voice. “I need to talk to you.” I said, this time with more meaning, and not stuttering.

Sherlock gave a half hearted grunt, I couldn't quite tell if that meant he agreed, or just wanted me out of his hair. I decided to just go with the first one and leave it at that.

“Sherlock, I know it was wrong to tell you I’m gay and I-”

“Wrong to tell me?” Sherlock snarled, sitting up this time, glaring at me full force.

“Yes,” I started, determined to keep my voice even. “I shouldn’t have told you, but Harry-”

“Oh I see.” Sherlock spits in my direction. “You were just going to keep your little secret forever? What possibly do you have to gain by not telling me?” 

This made me stop, and really think. “What do I have to gain?” I asked shakily, trying to take in what that meant.

“Yes.” Sherlock said, his voice sounding like he was talking to a dumb child. “You could have been fucking half the men in London!” Sherlock yells at me, making me wince at the crude language. God, I’m an idiot. It sounds awful even coming out of Sherlock's mouth. Why do I have to think of such things? Wishing to fuck men and just being _wrong._

“I’m sorry.” I whisper. This is not at all how I pictured this going at all. But I really shouldn’t have been surprised, I’m gross and inhuman.

“What are you sorry for?” Sherlock grumbles to himself, flopping down on the couch so he doesn’t have to look at me anymore.

“I know I’m not supposed to be gay, alright? Quit playing dumb!” I yell back at him, anger quickly overcoming my self loathing.

“Playing dumb?” Sherlock shrieks, sounding offended. 

“What gives you the right to hold me accountable for my mistakes? You aren’t my father, you can’t yell at me every time I forget I’m not gay!”I fold my arms over my chest, acting just like a teenager after a tantrum.

“Forget you’re not gay?” Sherlock yells back, confusion and anger boiling over his features. “What does that even mean?”

“What does that even mean?” I repeat with a forced laugh. “Of course I know I’m wrong Sherlock. But us regular people sometimes make mistakes.” I spit at him, vaguely noticing the tears forcing themselves out of my eyes. Fan-fucking-tastic, like I really need to show my weakness at a time like this.

Sherlock just stares at me with the look he sometimes gets when he hasn’t found the connecting piece in a case. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he almost knows what he wants to say but hasn’t quite decided on the right words. 

“John.” Sherlock starts slowly. Very slowly, with none of his previous anger or irritation. “Are you trying to say you’re sorry for telling me you’re gay, or sorry for being gay?”

Now it’s my turn to look dumbfounded, like I’m the one missing the connections in a case. “There - there isn’t a difference.” I say just as slowly as Sherlock had, trying desperately to find the right answer to his impossible question.

When Sherlock’s face drops after hearing my words, I realize I must have said the wrong thing. “Why did you compare me to your dad?” Sherlock asks me, similarly to the way he asks victims questions about what they had gone through.

My heart thuds loudly in my chest. What do these questions have to do with me apologizing? What is Sherlock trying to get at? “I-I-I don’t know what you mean.” I stammer, looking over Sherlock's face, trying to find an answer.

“Why would you feel compelled to bring your deceased father into the conversation? Your recently deceased father whom I’ve never once seen you grieve over.” Sherlock says, now speaking lightening fast. “Is he the one who told you you’re not ‘supposed to be gay’? I confess I found it rather odd you never even blinked after getting that email about your father passing away. But I didn’t imagine it was because of some sort of psychological trauma.”

“Shut up.” I barely whisper, trying to wipe my still freely flowing tears away. “Shut up.” I say again, a little louder this time, but with absolutely no conviction. That had stung, deep. Like opening up an old wound only to find all the old pains now mingled with new pains of finding what’s been covered for so long. 

“John, I-”

“No Sherlock.” I say, my voice still soft. “I can’t. Tell you, I mean. I don’t know how.” I take a fearful step back, distancing myself from the only person close enough to figuring out why I have ‘trust issues’ (as my therapist calls it) and why I don’t know how to be gay or straight. Or what any of it means. I can’t even look at him. Those beautiful eyes showing sadness for finding a pained memory of mine, his unruly curls framing that defeated looking face.

I hold myself tight, and walk slowly up to my room so I can be alone. So I can figure out some way to numb the pain. I slowly shut the door, the little _click_ barely audible. Then I fall to the floor and curl up in a ball, just like how I used to after he hit me when I was a young, stupid, child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the support! The comments and kudos are very appreciated!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings! Please read the tags!

It was about three o’clock that same afternoon. I had been hiding in my room, thinking of all the ways I could have made that conversation with Sherlock end better. What could I have said differently, what should I have left out, what should I have added? It took hours of self loathing before I thought that maybe I could trust Sherlock, trust him enough to tell him my past. 

But, of course that wasn’t the best idea. I mean, of course I love and trust Sherlock, with all my heart. But he can’t know. No one can. Who would ever be able to look me in the eye after they know the disgusting details of my childhood? Sherlock certainly wouldn’t. The brilliant genius would remember every detail I’ll ever tell him. He would analyze it over and over again. Finding secret meanings, know how to interpret everything. He would find more meaning in my past than I would. And with that, how could he ever be my friend?

My mind had been babbling like that for hours. But I suddenly realized why I had come home earlier today. I trusted Sherlock, I wanted him to understand. He’s my friend. My best friend if I’m honest with myself. And, even though it hurts, and I’m more than a little scared, I know that even if there is the smallest chance Sherlock will understand what I’ve been through, it’s worth the risk. 

I also reasoned that it was high time I get out of my room to get something to eat, if only to use the excuse to actually leave the little room, which was much more terrifying than it ought to be.

When I made it down the stairs, I did the one small act of comfort I knew I could always count on. I got the kettle started and grabbed two mugs and two tea bags. 

The soft noises from my movement didn’t go amiss, and soon Sherlock slowly approached me in the kitchen.

“John?” His voice cracked slightly, he sounded nervous and unsure of himself. I felt my heart flutter in my chest but I swallowed my nerves, determined to set things straight, no matter the consequences.

I gave a stiff smile in return. “Um, I think I’m ready to explain myself. That is, if you want, I mean. I just need a snack first, I’m famished.” 

Sherlock gave a quick nod and turned back to the living room, taking a seat in his chair and waiting patiently. I found a half full package of chocolate biscuits and finished making tea. Taking my time, and remembering how to breath. 

When I finally made it to my own chair, handing over Sherlock's mug of tea, and putting the biscuits on the table beside me. I took a small sip of my tea and quickly downed two biscuits. 

“I assume the reason you’re waiting here is so I can tell you? Right? I don’t want to explain myself if you don’t really want to know.” I started, keeping emotion out of my voice. 

Sherlock's eyes widened at that, but he made sure to keep his low baritone void of emotion as well. “Yes, I would like to know.”

“All right. Before I start, though, can you promise you won’t interupt unless you want me to stop talking about it? This is very hard, and I’m worried this could lead to you possibly kicking me out.” I took a gulp of my tea, my throat suddenly dry from the honest confession.

Sherlock looked me over, seeming to really think through what I have told him, before nodding at me, indicating he was prepared to listen. 

I took one last deep breath, gripping my mug tighter than necessary, and started shakily.

“If I had to put a start to all this, I would say it was in the third grade. First day of school, actually. It was my first time back at school after my mother had passed.” I took a moments pause, remembering how frightened I was that I didn’t have my moms hand to hold that first day. “My teacher put our desks in alphabetical order, and I was next to Sammy Vail. That summer it had seemed all my friends were starting to like girls. Or, as much as any 8 year-old could anyway. But I just never saw why. But that day I realized that was because I liked boys more than girls. And I saw everything my friends found cute on girls, cute on Sammy. He had soft hair, big eyes, and a friendly smile. 

“At first I didn’t know what to do. And, only being eight I didn’t see anything wrong with my choice of a first crush. But, of course, it was only a matter of time before I told Harry. I mean she was my sister after all. But when she ran around the house chanting ‘Jonny likes boys, Jonny likes boys!’ My dad overheard. And that was the first time he hit me.” I subconsciously put my hand over my stomach, and I could tell Sherlock knew that was where I got it first. But he maintained a put together expression.

“It wasn’t so bad. He at least had the decency to hit me somewhere where I could hide the bruise. And it faded quickly enough. And that was enough to remind me that boys were off limits. Or at least for me.

“But, I soon found out that wasn’t quite enough for my dad. You see, all he ever cared about was masculinity, and proving one's worth. So, when I didn’t join any sports, and never talked about girls, my dad caught on that I wasn’t normal. 

“Which was completely true. In the seventh grade, I was at a birthday party, where we played Seven Minutes In Heaven. And I was quickly shoved in the closet with Sarah, a pretty red head who blushed whenever I looked at her. But, once we were alone and I tried to kiss her it felt wrong. I didn’t like how her long hair got in the way, or how she felt so small when I tried to put my hands on her hips. Our seven minutes only lasted about two because she got angry when I told her I didn’t like kissing.” I chuckled softly at the memory of her punching me in the arm and walking out. 

“She hit me before she left, and my t-shirt didn’t cover that bruise. My dad noticed and put his hands around my neck, gripping me tighter every time I wouldn’t answer his questions, until finally I told him where it had come from. When I told him about Sarah, he threw me to the floor and kicked me in the thigh. That was the first time he started not caring if people knew what he was doing. I had to go to school all next week with a limp and bruises around my neck that were yellow and green. It only got worse after that.” I barely squeaked that last part out. Knowing that that was the moment my life had turned to hell.

“Soon, it wasn’t enough beating me. I had gotten close to Harry over the years, she was the only one who knew what our dad was capable of. I could confide in her, and she took care of me when I couldn’t take care of myself. When I didn’t make the rugby team the spring after the Sarah incident, my dad thought I threw the try outs so I didn’t have to ‘be a man’ as he always liked to put it. He had pushed me to the ground and started kicking my stomach over and over.” I could feel my voice going raw at the memory. It was one of my worst.

“He left me on the floor and I knew I was most likely bleeding internally. But dad just left so he could pick up more booze. I don’t know how long I had been there, I imagined I passed out quickly. But Harry was the one to save me. She called 999 and told them she had gotten angry and beaten me up. The police and medics that had shown up didn’t think twice about it. Harry had already gotten in a few fights at school, so they didn’t view me any different. 

“I was in the hospital for five days, and every time Harry and my dad came to visit me, Harry had a new bruise. I knew it was my fault. I wasn’t at home to protect her, and she was getting beaten up for helping me. Each day after my family left I vomited at the thought of my dad touching Harry. My nurses thought I was reacting to the drugs they were given me. If I could have held my stomach, I would have been out sooner to help my sister. But I couldn't even do that much.” My throat was tight and I had to close my eyes to keep myself from crying. I drank the last half of my now cold tea, trying to get the cotton feeling out of my mouth. At this point Sherlock was openly showing his emotions. I don’t think he could hide them any longer. He couldn't look at me, similarly to how I had expected. But his features weren’t filled with disgust like I had expected, rather he looked like he might join me in crying. His eyes, or at least what I could see of them were glassed over. He couldn’t breath out of his nose anymore because he had sniffled more than a few times during my retelling, and his bottom lip seemed to tremble every time he took in a shaky breath.

But I continued. Sherlock had to know how this ended. “After I made it home, every time Harry tried to help me, whether it was after I had gotten hit or something happened at school, anything really. My dad would start with me. He learned how to utterly defeat me both physically and mentally. He learned what to say and how to say it. It took less than two months after I had left the hospital to truly hate myself. To believe everything I had ever done or thought was wrong. Even now, I can see each mistake as something I should have prevented because if I had been like everyone else, everyone around me would have been better off. I would be left in a pile of tears and hurt in every sense of the word on the floor of my room. And, to be sure I heard the pain my dad brought to Harry, he never hurt me enough to make me pass out ever again. I could hear her pleas, her voice trembling, asking him to stop. Only for it to be responded with a slap to her skin, and a cry of pain. That’s what dad liked about Harry. She- she was loud.” I whispered the last part, remembering the evil smile my dad would get the few times I witnessed Harry's beatings. His wicked teeth showing through his lips every time Harry said it hurt, or she cried out. 

I had to stop momentarily to get up and grab the tissues from the desk. Thinking of Harry and how defenseless she was forced tears out of my eyes. I couldn’t help but remember what her beautiful face looked like red and purple, her cheeks streaked with tears and her long hair knotted and messy after being pulled every which way by our father.

I took the box of tissues back to my seat, handing Sherlock some. He now couldn’t hide his own tears, although he was doing a rather stoic job of looking a hell of a lot more put together than I was. We shared a soft, broken smile between us before I continued once again.

“It wasn’t until my senior year until I got caught with a boy again. It was completely my fault. James was his name. I thought I was in love, to be honest. And in all reality, love makes you stupid. I took James home one night. I wasn’t even nervous. I thought I would be, seeing as it would be my first time. But I thought it was wonderful. It was the first time I explored my sexuality, and James didn’t ask about my scars or bruises. I thought it was perfect, he was perfect. But, I forgot to tell James to go home after we were done. My dad found James and me naked in my room. That wasn’t the biggest problem. I got snot kicked out of me, sure. But that's when it opened up a new form of torture from my dad. 

“Not long after that I had went to a party with some friends. Nothing really, I didn’t even drink, I just enjoyed the company. And I had made sure to leave so I would beat my dad home. But, to my surprise, that night was the only night I can remember where he was home before one in the morning. I was terrified going inside. I knew if he found out I was out the boys it could get ugly really fast. But even then, after all those year, I still didn’t know what he was capable of.” Sherlock looked up at me for the first time, his features full of surprise and worry. 

“Dad started with the yelling, like always. Telling me how worthless I was and how disgusting and disappointing I was to him. He was drunk, and beyond pissed. At first I thought I would most likely go to the hospital again. But it turned out worse than that. He- he grabbed me. Telling me he knew what I wanted. That I liked it when he touched me. I was pinned against the wall, and didn’t know what to do, and I had no way of stopping him. He stripped my trousers and pants off. Leaving me naked from the waist down. Before long he had turned me around and started sticking his fat, rough fingers inside me. It was the worst thing I had ever experienced. I felt so used and violated. He convinced me it was my fault, and this is what I deserved because I wanted to do this to other men. I couldn’t stop him, but when that third finger went inside me he stopped and I fell to the ground. I was a sobbing mess and I didn’t know what to do. Harry was there, she helped me and got me situated. She told me I had to leave and I couldn’t come back. She had already packed me a plastic bag of clothes and pushed me out the door.”

My whole body was shaking, and I had closed my eyes at some point. My breathing was heavy and my heart was racing at the memory I had shoved so far back in my mind. 

“I left and never came back. I finished high school, staying at friends houses. And I made it to Uni, then to the army. But I couldn't do anything. Not with my dads voice in the back of my head, and the feeling of his hands over me. I was a wreck and didn’t know how to get my life together. I spent all my energy towards schooling or work, not knowing how else to deal with what I had been through. But then I got sent home. I had been shot, and any sort of purpose I found for myself was shattered. I was sent home a broken and unwanted man. I was no better off than I was when I ran away from home. I was ready to kill myself. End the suffering I was causing to myself and those around me.” My voice was uneven, and Sherlock snapped his attention to me once again, fear filled his eyes as he searched over my own facial expression.

“But.” I said slowly. “Then I met you. And life was worth living again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That may have completely drained me emotionally, but now everything is on the table. So, how will Sherlock react? You'll have to stay tuned to find out! ;)


	12. Chapter 12

I figured it would take time for Sherlock's brain to comprehend all the information I had given him, but in less than five seconds after I had finished, the detective got off his chair and walked over to mine, placing his lanky arms around me. I wish I could say our first hug was completely spectacular, but to be honest, Sherlock was shit at hugging. 

But that didn’t stop me from wrapping my own arms around Sherlock's lean torso and shoving my face into neck, simply breathing in the smell of Sherlock and enjoying the feeling of physical contact.

I felt a drip of wetness run down my hair and onto my cheek, it took a moment to realize Sherlock was still crying. I tightened my hug, and suddenly all of Sherlock's muscles relaxed into mine. His knees fell to the floor, putting his body in between my own knees, making his face fall to the same level as mine and put his chin on the opposite shoulder to me. 

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock whispers, his voice cracking over the words. It shocks me to hear them come out of his mouth. Its such a non-Sherlock thing to say I don’t even know how to respond. But Sherlock seems okay with that, he doesn’t push me to say anything and we stay in our somewhat awkward hugging position just comforting each other for what feels like an eternity, but similarly not nearly enough time, before Sherlock breaks the silence once again. “I need to get up.” Sherlock says quietly in my ear, sounding as if he's worried his voice will scare me away. “This is killing my knees.”

The explanation is suddenly funny, and as we’re pulling apart I can’t help but laugh, and the strange look Sherlock gives me only encourages my inappropriate laughter.

“What?” Sherlock asks, his eyebrows scrunch up in confusion.

“Nothing.” I say, trying my best to stop laughing. “It’s just, you know, I come out to you as gay and then you complain about your knees.”

Sherlock's face goes red, the tips of his ears pink, and the blush is more adorable than it should be. “I find your immaturity quite inappropriate, but if this is how you cope, I suppose…”

“No! No.” I say, grabbing Sherlock's hand before he has the chance to retreat. “Sorry, that was completely inappropriate. Lets just move to the couch, yeah? I’m sure you’ve got questions.” I give a smile that I hope Sherlock takes as encouraging. Which seems to work, as soon enough Sherlock helps me up and we walk over to the sofa, still hand in hand.

Even when we sit down and Sherlock is suddenly shy again, he doesn't’ take his hand away, and the small act runs through my veins, relieving any doubts I ever had. 

“Are there - are there any questions I’m not allowed to ask?” Sherlock starts, a bit nervous.

“Nope. Everything is free game.” I say, lending Sherlock what I hope to be another encouraging smile.

“Why did you think telling me would possibly get you kicked out?” Sherlock starts, squeezing my hand slightly and looking into my eyes.

“I’ve been rejected all my life. I didn’t want to get my hopes up.” I say honestly. “But after Harry let the cat out of the bag, I knew I couldn’t avoid you forever. And then you were so angry I lied, and even though I trusted you with all my heart, my track record for acceptance is quite low.”

“I hope you know that I misunderstood. Now that I fully understand I’m only angry that someone had the nerve to do this to you, and now the dirty bastard is dead and can’t pay for what he’s done.” Sherlock growls under his breath looking away with a scowl.

“Hey now.” I say softly, giving a gentle squeeze to the hand still intertwined with my own. “Lets not focus on my dad, all right? He’s not worth it.”

Sherlock simply nodded in response, letting the anger drain away from his features. 

“It bothers you Harry drinks to dull her pain.” It wasn’t really a question so I shrugged my shoulders, avoiding any meaning behind it. “Is that why you two aren’t as close as you used to be?” Sherlock finishes, giving me a question I can’t simply shrug off.

“I suppose that started when I ran away. I never kept in touch with Harry. Never made sure she was okay or asked if she had left too. I never forgave myself for that. But the drinking didn’t help either. She always had an anger like our fathers, and every time she got drunk I could only see him.”

Sherlock took a moment, keeping his eyes away from mine so I couldn’t tell if he was mulling over my response or thinking of another question. But once he made up his mind, his features changed again. His entire face was soft, almost pliable. His eyes questioning. With the hand that was holding mine, he lifted and took the opportunity to grasp my hand with both of his, turning fully towards me, and scooting ever so slightly closer.

“John.” Sherlock started, sounding as if he were still thinking over his words. “You know you’re not abnormal, right? That it’s okay to be the way you are?”

I looked Sherlock in the eye, but had no words. I couldn't understand what it was that he was trying to get out of me. What it was that he wanted. I tried to open my mouth, to give Sherlock something. Anything. But nothing was coming out. It was like my brain and mouth were suddenly disconnected and all I could do was look at Sherlock with utter shock and confusion. 

“ You told me that I made your life worth living again.” Sherlock said, moving closer to me. “Can I show you that your life isn’t only worth living, but is also invaluable? That your life means more to me than some sexuality label?”

My eyes widened at that. I wasn’t quite sure of the meaning behind his words, but I trusted Sherlock, and I would do anything for him. So I nodded, still unable to find any words.

Sherlock gave a small, heartbreakingly honest, smile, as he scanned his eyes over my face, taking in whatever data he deemed worthy of being in his mind palace. And before I could come up with the question of what he was doing, He leaned in close and covered my lips with his. It was short, so short I almost thought I imagined the small act, but even after his lips left mine, there was static running through my entire being. 

“John, your mind and your body are beautiful. I’ve never known someone so worthy happiness, and yet your life is full of hardship.”

“I don’t understand.” I said weakly, trying to grasp what Sherlock was saying, what he was telling me. I couldn't believe anyone found me beautiful, let alone someone as brilliant and perfect as Sherlock.

“You told me you have scars. Would you allow me to see them?” Sherlock asked, lowering his voice. And all I could do was nod in response, suddenly losing my ability to speak once again. 

I nervously lifted away my jumper, followed by my t-shirt. I should have felt more self conscious of those icy blue eyes working their way across my body. Taking in every imperfection displayed before them. But nothing on Sherlock’s face told me he judged anything he saw, and that small bit of comfort kept me from trying to hide myself.

“Do you have more?” Sherlock asked after taking in the sight of my marred torso. And when I nodded to him for what felt like the millionth time that day, Sherlock only stood up, pulling me up gently by the hand still in his. “Will you come to the bedroom with me John? If you would allow me, I would like to show you the worship your body deserves.”

My brain scrambled around what Sherlock was telling me, trying to tell me it was a lie or it was a trick. But I knew Sherlock would never do that to me. He wouldn’t take my pain and use it against me. I let the ever increasing weight lift off my shoulders for the first time in years, not even attempting to hold back the smile that curled my lips upwards. 

“Yes. Please.” I answered, completely breathless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've completely spoiled you all with the amount of chapter updates recently! You have this wonderful three day weekend to thank! Hopefully there will be another update soon, but as I've said, school is becoming ever increasingly tedious, but I will attempt to update again as soon as possible!
> 
> Thank you again for all the support! All of the kudos and comments have made my little heart soar! :D


	13. Chapter 13

As Sherlock lead me into the bedroom I could feel my heart trying to beat it's way out of my chest. A nervous sweat breaking along my hairline. A single bead of sweat collects at the nape of my neck, and I can feel it as it slides down my still bare back. Making it's way down my over sensitive skin.

When we make it, Sherlock gently shuts the door before looking back to me. But we only hold eye contact for a few short seconds before he glances down to his feet.

"John." Sherlock starts, a hint of hesitancy in his voice. "I-I'm not so good at this. This may be awkward or clumsy, but I need you to see how I feel about you."

And then that's when it hits me. This isn't about me proving myself to Sherlock, this is about both of us coming together. About showing one another that we can have the happiness we've both desperately wanted, but inevitably ran away from all these years. This moment is about just the two of us, and no one, not even my father, can take this away.

"I trust you." I say back, my voice barely above a whisper. I take a cautious step in Sherlock's direction and grab his wrist, placing his hand over my right rib cage, on a discolored layer of skin.

"This one is from the night I went to the hospital. Dad was wearing steel toe boots. The skin never really healed properly." I offer, letting the smooth tips of Sherlock's fingers trace the patch of skin.

I move Sherlock's hand, slowly bringing it to my hairline behind my right ear where I have a jagged scar. "That ones from a beer bottle." I give a soft chuckle. "Hit over the head when I was 9."

Next, I take Sherlock's hand to my left forearm, another patch of discolored skin. "Dad caught me using the stove without permission. I can't even remember what I was trying to make, but he held my arm on the burner until I promised I would go the next 24 hours without eating."

I let Sherlock's hand go, but he keeps his fingers lightly on my scar. His face in contemplation, taking in everything telling him. At first I think he's just going to leave it to those three, but then he gently places his other hand on my chest and moved both hands over my skin. I close my eyes and let the feeling of contact over take my thoughts, feeling Sherlock's exploration and cherishing each moment.

Soon, Sherlock turns his attention to my back, mapping out the expanse of new terrine. After a few moments, Sherlock runs his finger gently up my lower spine, along where I know there's a cluster of broken skin.

"What is this one?" Sherlock asks, falling to his knees to get a better look.

"Harry took a sewing class one year. She brought home this little pin cushion that looked like a pillow made for dolls. She had maybe 25 or 30 pins in it though. We were playing around with it in my room when dad found us. He said sewing wasn't for men and pushed me face down on the ground and pushed the pins so the sharp ends were sticking out of the bottom of the pillow, and he scraped it along my back a few times. Most of them healed fine, but that was the area he spent the bulk of his rage on at the time. It would heal over and then break back open, bled for weeks, I thought it would never stop."

I could feel Sherlock running his thumb over the patch of pin point scars, taking in what that meant. When he finally stopped I figured he was moving on, but then I felt the faintest ghost of a touch. His lips barely brushing over my spine. I wouldn't have even called it a kiss, except for that fact that this is Sherlock, and I know it wasn't accidental.  
I felt Sherlock rise back up to his feet, staying close to my back. His cotton shirt and pajama bottoms dancing along my skin.

"I want to see more of you, John." Sherlock's deep baritone whispers in my ear, the voice filled with desire and curiosity.

“I trust you.” I whisper back, not even taking a second to think about it. 

We walk closer to the bed and take one last nervous look into each others eyes before Sherlock places a quick kiss on my lips. “What do you need?” 

“You. Always you.” I say back with a smile, and the words finally seem to break the daze we’ve been in. 

I pull Sherlock by his t-shirt and bring him up against me before taking his mouth in mine. Its just lips on lips, skin brushing skin. But I can feel the meaning and care behind the small gesture. But eventually its Sherlock who becomes impatient and pushes on, trailing his tongue across my lower lip, turning his face for a change of angle.

I happily oblige, opening my mouth and letting him explore. It stays slow like that for quite some time, Sherlock is as thorough with kissing as he is with his detective work. He simultaneously knows how to collect the data he needs and put it into action. He quickly catches on to what I like, and then never giving up. He runs his tongue everywhere. Leaving no surface untouched. Which is odd at first, but then becomes quite sensual, its hard to explain, the way his mouth knows how to form to my mouth, making it feel complete. 

I run my fingers along the hem of his pajama bottoms, slipping my thumb into the waistband and teasing his hip bones, rubbing small circles over the soft skin. Sherlock lets out a soft _‘oh!’_ of surprise, opening his eyes to look at me, but never breaking the kiss. Instead, its like it opens up a new realm of possibilities for him, and he completely switches gears. 

Once Sherlock has closed his eyes once again, he changes the angle of his face again, and sucks my tongue into his mouth, coaxing me to take the lead and deepen the kiss. I take the bait, and explore Sherlock's mouth on my own. Not quite as thoroughly as Sherlock, but I still get the satisfying little sounds to come involuntarily out of his throat. 

As I’m taking control of the kiss, Sherlock takes his hands and places them on my shoulders, giving them a quick squeeze before slowly sliding them down until his hands meet my own at the hem of his pajamas. He takes my wrists in hand, and guide them to his arse, giving me a nice feel. But, really this is ridiculous, and it's no wonder I laugh without really meaning to, breaking the kiss while trying desperately to stop.

“Was that to forward?” Sherlock asks, not sounding the slightest bit embarrassed, even with his flushed cheeks and heavy breathing.

“No, I just don’t think I’ve ever been proposed to grope a mans arse like that.” And then Sherlock joins, lightening up the mood, but leaving us no less desperate for eachother.

“No but seriously, John.” Sherlock starts once our laughing as calmed down. “I want you to bugger me so hard into that mattress, that if Lestraud calls for a case tomorrow, the whole Yard will know its not a stick up my arse like they all suspect, but your cock.” Sherlock says, giving the k in cock a little click of his tongue. His pupils fully blown now, and he moves closer to me, grabbing my hands and placing them once again on his arse and whispering into my ear, “Take me to bed, Captain.” before giving a quick nibble to my ear.

I let out a horridly loud groan, and before I even give myself a chance to care I manhandle Sherlock over to the bed to push him down on the nicely made duvet.

But, really, Sherlock was all but begging to be manhandled, and I think he liked it. Or, at least his cock did, seeing as I was literally watching it grow as I nibbled along the hem of his pajamas, licking along the skin just above the soft fabric. 

“Take off your shirt.” I grunt up at Sherlock, taking his bottoms in hand and tugging them down and allowing his cock to spring free. 

Sherlock responds quickly, tossing his shirt somewhere behind him, leaving him utterly naked and vulnerable. I let out a small sigh, taking in the sight in front of me. “Look at you, you’re flawless.” I whisper against Sherlock's skin, trailing my fingers up and down his thighs.

“I’ve got scars, just like you John.” Sherlock says, looking up at me from his position on the bed.

I climb up and over him, straddling his thin hips before placing a wet kiss on that properly snogged cupids bow. “Yeah, but yours are so much more beautiful.” I whisper on his lips, looking into those endlessly blue eyes.

“John.” Sherlock says, the sweet tone of his voice contradicting his roaming fingers. “Your body is gorgeous, fantastic, and honest. What you carry on your skin doesn’t define you, but it shows your story and how you’ve become this brilliant man, who is going to be shagging my brains out any second, I know it.” Sherlock teases, trailing his long fingers over the button on my trousers, looking up and into my eyes before finally popping off the button and unzipping them. 

“What happened to showing my body the worship it deserves?” I tease, lifting my hips so Sherlock can help me pull my trousers and pants all the way off.

“Your body really deserves to be inside me. And by me, I mean my arse. And by your body, I mean your cock, fingers, tongue. Maybe even your toes. Or nose. Bloody well anything that makes you feel good, I am quite open to suggestion.”

I chuckle lightly at Sherlock, whose writhing underneath me, but any sort of joking is gone as soon as those bloody perfect fingers trace up my cock, making me gasp. 

“John, I will resort to begging. Lube and condoms are in my night stand.” 

I swallowed heavily and give one short nod, reaching over and taking what I need out of the small night stand and looking back to Sherlock, whose desperate expression has gone smug, as he strokes my seemingly forever hardening cock one last time before I slide down and place myself in between those long, lean, muscular legs.

I roll the condom on before lubing up my hand and fingers generously and looking back up to Sherlock. “Is it safe to assume you’ve done this before?” I ask, trailing my one lubed finger up Sherlock's crack, teasing lightly over his entrance.

“Ah, y-yes. So please, by all means, don’t hold back.”

And that’s all I need, slipping my finger in to the first knuckle. Sherlock gives a surprised yelp that's followed by a satisfactory sigh of relief. And I take Sherlocks advise, and don’t hold back. 

I spend ages on my one finger, teasing and stretching. Fucking Sherlock repeatedly with my index finger, reducing him to a blabering mess, before adding a second finger. I scissor and thrust both fingers with no sense of rhythm. Not giving Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing my next move, and by the time my third finger makes it in, Sherlock has sucome to begging.

“Please, please. John. Oh, John I need you. Please, I need you and your beautiful cock in me right the fuck now.”

Hearing Sherlock's posh baritone completely undone and saying such dirty things makes me feel unbelievably hotter than I already am. 

“Can your pretty little arse take all of me?” I ask Sherlock in a mocking tone, rubbing my fingers along the inside wall of his arse, making him squirm and pant. His disheveled curls bouncing madly as he nods, groaning out a broken yes.

I give a devilish smile as I slowly take my fingers out and lube up my cock. “Touch yourself, sweetheart.” And just as Sherlock's fingers grasp the base of his long, hard, and frankly purpling cock, I thrust myself inside him. Both of us groaning in unison, halting our movement to get used to the overwhelming feelings.

“Move, dammit.” Sherlock finally says, his voice low and husky. His hips twitching in anticipation.

I grunt in agreement as I pull out and push back in with a purpose. Never letting up, and quickly getting lost in the sensation of slick, hot friction, and Sherlock panting _‘Harder, faster, fuck me like you mean it’_ and every other variation. 

But soon I can feel all of it becoming too much, and I know both Sherlock and I are close. Sherlock's hands are frantically pumping up and down his own cock as I thrust mercilessly into him. 

Sherlock gives one last yelp before coming hard in between us. Coating both our chests in his milky release. I thrust once more deep inside Sherlock before following him, yelling his name, and collapsing in his pile of come. 

We lay like that for a few minutes, breathing hard and lightly trailing our fingers over each other before I finally pull myself out of Sherlock, peeling off and tossing away the condom. 

“You, Sherlock Holmes, are so bloody vocal.” I finally gasp once my voice comes back.

“And you, John Watson, are a damn good shag.” 

I chuckle into Sherlock's shoulder, breathing in the smell of sweat and sex before pushing myself off and going to grab a flannel to clean us both up.

When I make it back, Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room, still naked, and still covered in come, looking at his phone. I step closer and start cleaning Sherlock up.

“John, we’ve got a case. Get dressed, it’s time to show that lot I don’t have a stick up my arse. Now, are there any visible love bites you left me that I can flaunt?” Sherlock asks, running his fingers over his throat.

And all I can do is stand there and laugh at the great git.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait! I promise the next chapter update wont take so long!


	14. Chapter 14

“No, no, no! That's not it at all!” I hear Sherlock yell from across the room at the poor new forensics employee. “Of course he isn’t a sexual sadist, you can tell by the bruising the intercourse was consensual.” Sherlock huffs, dismissing the poor woman with a wave of his hand, looking back at the body.

I take that as my cue to go and calm Sherlock down. It’s been a rough couple of days for the both of us. Since Greg called us in after all our (well, okay, mostly my) confessions, there has been three bodies in two days. A string of women killed in alleyways behind three different pubs, slashed to bits with absolutely no remorse. 

When I lean down next to Sherlock, I hear him sigh in annoyance. “It doesn’t make any sense, John! All of these woman have visibly consensual intercourse, and are then in turn sexually killed. With no way of proving that the kills show sexual sadism. What am I missing?” I can hear the growl under Sherlock's voice, threatening to take his frustration over the edge. 

I want nothing more than to hold his hand, tell him it’s okay and he will find the missing piece soon. But Sherlock and I have barely talked since we had sex two days ago. Let alone touch or even kiss. 

I settle for a sad smile as the forensics woman comes over, braving Sherlock once again. “We’ve got the semen samples back.” She says shyly, handing over the documents to Sherlock.

“Fantastic!” Sherlock exclaims, hopping up from looking over the body to examining the papers.

I take the moment to actually look at the woman lying on the ground. Lot’s of deep cuts to the skin, hitting major and minor arteries. Most of the stabbings were made while she was alive, but I can see some are post mortem which is interesting.

“What? But that doesn’t make any sense.” I hear Sherlock mutter into the documents in his hand.

“What doesn’t make sense?” I ask, looking up. But Sherlock just furrows his brow, thinking deeper. “You know,” I start again, looking at the woman, “this is so violent, I would have assumed the poor bastard just couldn’t get it up so he was taking it out on these women. But that can’t be true, they’ve all obviously had sex.”

At first Sherlock just grunts at my comment, continuing to look over the papers. Until a sudden burst of- something takes over. “John, that’s it!” He practically shouts in glee, striding right up to my personal space with the biggest grin on his face. “Oh, I love you!” He ends with a kiss to my lips.

I only get to savor the small act for a fraction of a second before Sherlock's body goes stiff and he backs away. The wild look of horror in his eyes. 

“Ignore that.” Sherlock says quickly, turning away from me to go and talk to Greg. 

I’m so shocked I don’t even bother following him. I just sort of stand there like an idiot while half the Met points at me, inevitably talking about what Sherlock has just done. I can hear the faint, but no less excited, tones of Sherlock's explanation. His sweet voice is mesmerizing, and almost feels like its right in the back of my head. _‘It’s not a man, its a woman. I know the over kill and dirty work points otherwise, but its the only explanation that all three semen samples are different.’_

It’s sort of funny how melodic and rhythmic the genius is that flows from Sherlock’s mouth. How his voice can make you almost forget about the rest of the world. _‘She’s killing them because of the sexual intercourse, not because she want’s it from from, but from their partners. That’s why she hasn’t shown any signs of sexual sadism.’_

After what I only hope was a couple minutes, may have been longer, Sherlock comes back to rescue me. Grabbing me by the arm and pulling me out of not only my mind, but the building as well. “We’re done here. Time to head back home.” I hear Sherlock say beside me. No longer the faint humming in the back of my head, but something more tangible.

I look up at Sherlock's face, catching traces of some sort of emotion I’ve never seen on his face before. We head out to the street, and Sherlock hails a cab. The ride isn’t to long, but I spend most of it giving quick glances to the man sitting beside me. The man who hasn’t told me what he is, what we are, exactly. Certainly lovers? Maybe boyfriends. Although that might be a bit childish in Sherlock's point of view. Partners? Of course we’ve always been that, but more so in the sexual way now. 

We’ve shared so much between us now, I can’t imagine us being anything less. 

It’s not until we’ve step foot into 221B that the words Sherlock said finally catch up to me. “Sherlock!” I say excitedly, turning around and grabbing on to his wrists. “You just told me you loved me!” I say, still not quite registering the words fully.

“It’s been about a half hour since the declaration, I wouldn’t say I just told you. But yes, I did. I said you could ignore that. It was premature and unprofessional. I should have had better control of my actions. It won’t happen again.”

“No, but I do too. Love you, I mean.” I say with a smile, looking up to the man who’s my everything. 

But Sherlock doesn't return my smile. Instead he gives a small frown and takes his wrists out of my hands. “John, you don’t have to say it back. I know I shouldn't have said it so soon, I didn’t intend for you to reciprocate my feelings.”

“But Sherlock, I do reciprocate your feelings. I’ve loved you since I shot that cabbie for you that first night. I never intended for you to feel the same way.” I say with a smile. Smiling at the irony, at the confession, at the fact that it’s true. Smiling for the man who has proven to be all I need.

“I’ve grown up never trusting feelings of sentiment. I don’t know what to do John.” 

I can feel my stomach turning, my heart racing, and twinge of fear somewhere deep in my chest from years of never getting this right. “I know it’s hard to trust. But, what if we do it together? You and me? If you’re able to give me the one thing you’ve never been able to give to anyone else, so can I.” 

“John, no offense, but you’re full of love. In a form of speaking the declaration means two different things to the both of us.” Sherlock says bitterly, but still giving me a curious look.

“No. I mean, I’ll give you what I’ve kept from every lover I’ve ever had. The one thing my dad took from me that I’ve never been able to reclaim. I trust that you can love me, and in return, you can trust that you mean more to me than just another doomed relationship.” My heart is threatening to beat out of my chest, but in a sort of good way. In a way that I know my life will never be the same.

“How do you propose we do that?” Sherlock asks me, his face showing the confusion underneath his normal know-it-all expression.

“I want you to have me. All of me. In the one way only my dad has. I-I want you to erase that memory, and show me that what we have between us is more than either of us have ever had.” I say, my voice shaking, and my stomach dropping. But I continue on. “Sherlock, I want you to make love to me, and we can both conquer our fears together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here is the much quicker chapter update! (albeit a bit shorter than the other ones, but but just as much super fun times packed in!!)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings! Please read tags!

I was able to lead Sherlock into his bedroom before his brain caught up to what I had proposed. 

“John.” Sherlock starts, looking me in the eyes. “When you say you want me to make love to you, do you mean…?” He asks, trailing off before getting to the true nature of his question.

“Yes. I want you inside me. What was it you said to me? Fingers, tongue, cock, toes, and nose? I’m quite open to suggestion.” I say with a smug grin. “I need the memory of what my dad did to me out of my head. I want to know what it feels like to be touched that way by someone who loves me.”

Sherlock gives me a look of complete understanding, like he knows how important this act is. Not just because of the sex, but because of what it will mean for me. I’ll be able to go the rest of my life knowing that I’ve had someone inside of me who was meant to give me pleasure and care, not hurt and self loathing. 

Sherlock takes a step closer to me, placing one hand on my cheek, and the other on my shoulder. “This might bring back those memories. It might be harder for you than you realize, I don’t want to hurt you, John.” He tells me, trailing his thumb across my cheek, giving me a small smile. “Physically or mentally.”

“I-I might start to panic, but we can figure this out together. I want to at least try.”

“Okay.” And that was all it took. We both had an understanding and knew this was something that would only bring us closer together. We closed the distance between us, lips connecting to lips, chest connecting to chest, fingers connecting to skin. 

The kiss was languid and thoughtful. Our fingers trailed lightly over one another, exploring on their own accord. It was sweet, bordering on innocent. Nothing rushed or dominating. It was almost like feeling what Sherlock was feeling. Like each stroke of his tongue, or caress of his fingers translated into the words he was unable to say. 

I know it sounds daft, but I’m proud of where we are. How well Sherlock and I can deal with our problems. How we can show each other our emotions, rather than saying them aloud. 

It wasn’t until Sherlock's thumb brushed across my cheek, sliding down my neck and played with the first button on my shirt that the kissed changed. I could feel his unease, trying to take control but unsure how to go about it. 

I grabbed at his hips and pulled him closer to me, letting him feel my arousal on his thigh. I broke the kiss, throwing my head back and groaning, baring my neck to give Sherlock access. It seems that was enough to give him the confidence he needed, because soon after Sherlock’s mouth was all over my neck, trailing nips and kisses over the expanse of skin. He fumbled over my buttons as he slowly ground his own arousal into my stomach. 

“Oh, Sherlock.” I moaned, my voice completely broken. It was all I could do to keep myself grounded. As my shirt made it off, falling to the floor, I gripped at Sherlock's hips tighter. “P-please.” I practically whispered, not exactly sure what I was asking for, but I needed it now. 

“What do you want?” Sherlock's unbelievably low voice growled, leaving me a whimpering mess.

“Tell me again.” I whine, not even the slightest bit embarrassed Sherlock has lowered me to this level.

“Mm.” I felt Sherlock rumble through his chest, trailing another wet kiss along my collarbone. “John Watson.” He started, interrupting himself by planting another kiss along my jaw, moving his was up to my earlobe. “I love you.” He ended with a last nip to my ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth.

“Ooh, fuck.” I breath, my arousal turning into desperation and lust.

“Is that an invitation or a threat?” Sherlock asks, his voice as airy and gravely as my own. And that’s when I know I’m ready to do anything for this man. Anything at all.

“All of it.” I choke out, wanting everything Sherlock can give me. Feeling greedier by the second. I pull apart from Sherlock just enough to feel my way down his body and grope at his erection through his trousers. “I want everything from you.” I say as I give him another squeeze, making Sherlock groan my name and practically throw his hands at the zipper on my jeans.

It all went so fast from there. The removal of my jeans, followed by my pants. I was completely naked, standing up against Sherlock. It wasn’t until he pushed me the step and a half towards the door and I was trapped, a shiver of fear running down my spine, clouding my brain.

_‘No.’_ I told myself, taking a shaky breath as Sherlock captured my lips with his once again. _‘This is different, don’t think of that now.’_ And after a couple more soft strokes of Sherlock's gentle fingers across my ribs, I was able to convince my mind that this was okay, that this was what I wanted. 

I smiled into the kiss, happy I could overcome my fear so quickly. That I had the control to do this for both myself and for Sherlock. Gaining my confidence once again, I play with the hem of Sherlock's trousers, practically begging him to take them off. 

Sherlock backs up slightly, looking down at me like hes analyzing or searching for something written on my face. I’m not exactly sure what he finds, but the shy smile he gives before backing up is both heartbreaking and beyond erotic. “Bed?” Sherlock asks, a quiver breaking that velvet voice only momentarily.

I make it over to the bed, removing the duvet and laying myself down as I watch Sherlock remove his clothing. Its less of a strip tease, and more of a fumbling of nervous fingers and a deep blush as Sherlock tries to ignore my exploring looks.

“I-I’ve never done this John.” Sherlock says once he is free of his clothing, looking over at me. “I don’t want to do this wrong.” His eyes are pleading with me to understand. Or maybe to take control, I can’t quite tell. But underneath I can see that this is something we both need to get passed, something to help us grow.

“It’ll be okay. We can go as fast or as slow as you need.” I reassure, Kneeling on the bed and extending my hand, and invitation for Sherlock to join me. 

When Sherlock finds his confidence once again, he walks over to me, taking my hand and kisses me. Its desperate and sloppy, and before either of us think about it, Sherlock has pushed me down, climbing over me and finding a place on my neck to suck and bite at. Grinding his hips into my thighs and trailing his fingers over my shoulders. 

I can feel the twinge of fear trying to bring itself back up to the surface, a nagging sensation in the back of my head. But I know I have control over this. I know I’m stronger than that. I push it away again, grabbing onto Sherlock's hips and grinding upwards, trying to match his pace. 

“Sherlock.” I say, my voice broken and shaky. “I need you. Want you inside me. Please Sherlock!” I whine, my voice raising and my fingers gripping tighter. I need it now. I need this. I know I need this. This is what's going to wash away all those memories, all those disasters and fucked up feelings.

Sherlock lets out a hesitant breath on my neck, pausing ever so slightly before reaching into the side drawer. Grabbing the lube and a stray condom and looking back at me with eyes so wide, they’re so full of hope and wonder. How could anything with eyes like that hurt me? It wouldn’t. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t.

“You’re sure?” Sherlock asks one last time as he opens the little bottle, his face flushed and pupils blown so wide there is only a small sliver of those icy blues I love so much.

“Yes.” I practically growl. I flop my head down, landing on the pillow and spread my legs, giving Sherlock the view he’s been waiting for. I grab myself, teasing the head of my own cock as I give Sherlock a longing look, and then he damn near throws the bottle. His eyes going comically wide and a deep blush running from his cheeks to the tips of his ears and down his chest. “Now.” I command once more, and Sherlock quickly does as he’s told, squirting too much lube on his hand and looking down, sort of like a lost puppy. 

I rock my hips, getting Sherlock to move once again. His cold, lubed finger slides hesitantly, almost fearfully over my opening, not even going inside me yet. But I can already tell this isn’t what my body wants. Every alarm is going off in my head, telling me to stop. But one look at Sherlock's face, the look of complete concentration and care and I push the feeling away for the third time. 

“Hurry Sherlock.” I groan, tipping my head back and rocking onto his single digit hesitating at my entrance.

“J-just tell me if I’m hurting you. Okay?” Sherlock asks, his voice sounding so unsure of himself it breaks my heart. I will get through this. If not for me, than for him. I know this is something I can do.

“Yeah, yeah. Just do it now!” I say impatiently, and that’s enough to make Sherlock slip the tip of his finger inside me.

And it’s awful. Really bloody awful. I immediately can’t breath, I gasp for air and clench the sheets. I feel the single finger inside me stop, just barely past the first knuckle.

“Can I move it? Is it alright?” I hear Sherlock again, his voice sounding so far away. 

_‘No!’_ My subconscious screams, sounding so much louder than the man sitting next to me. _‘Stop this now!’_ But I gulp down the anxiety. Push past the constant high pitched whine in my ears telling me its wrong. “Y-y-y-yeah.” I stutter, my voice sounding awful. “P-p-please move.” It’s the most unconvincing thing I think I’ve ever uttered. But Sherlock doesn’t notice. Sherlock, who trusts me with his life, moves his finger slowly in and out, gently stretching me.

But the burn is the same burn I felt all those years ago. The burn hasn’t changed and I can’t feel the difference. I try to open my eyes, I try to breath, but as soon as I feel a second finger gently push its way next to the first I’ve shut down.

My body goes limp, giving into defeat. Sherlock must have read that as me relaxing into the motion because his strokes became faster, not harder, but definitely deeper. The burn and the ache running heavily through my body. I open my mouth but I can’t speak, I can’t even make a sound. I’m barely breathing, just short, shallow breaths through my mouth as yet another finger follows.

I keep telling myself it’s going to get better. Once it’s Sherlock inside me I will be fine. It will be as brilliant as him and I can forget about everything each finger has done to me.

I make a choked sound as the feeling of those three long fingers finally leave me, the burn dulling to a fiery ache. I loosen the grip ever so slightly on the sheets, but my mind and my breathing don’t slow. An endless stream of white noise and fire fill my senses.

“I’m going to push in now.” I hear Sherlock, whose voice is still so far away. I need him. I just need him to hold be. To stop this feeling of disgust and filth and despair that's swarming around my mind. Sherlock can stop it.

I open my eyes for the first time to see those beautiful blue-green eyes looking at me, lust and love written all over his face. But when my eyes trail down to Sherlock's cock, long and elegant, and looking so much bigger than three fingers I feel my breath catch again, a sweat breaking over every pore in my body. It’s all I can do to close my eyes and throw my head back. I can feel my thighs twitching, my brain telling me it’s fight or flight, and leaning desperately towards flight.

But somehow I give some sort of nod or indication for Sherlock to continue, and I feel the head of his cock on my stretched hole. 

I hear Sherlock making some sort of sound. He might be talking to me, but I can’t hear a thing, every sensory output I have is on high alert. I can feel everything ten times over. The burn and stretch and tearing of my opening is more than I can handle. The breath on my shoulder is deafening, the feel of fingers along my arms is nauseating.

_‘It’s for Sherlock.’_ I tell myself, my mind swallowing the pathetic excuse. spitting it out and shutting me down even further. 

It’s not until I feel those sickly fingers move from my arm to my own cock that I suddenly notice I haven’t breathed in what feels like hours. I let in a gasp of air, drowning in over stimulation. My body can’t handle it and my orgasm rips through every atom of my being, tearing me in two. I come silently, just the ragged breath escaping my lips. I can vaguely feel Sherlock coming inside me. The quivering and pulsing of his cock pushing me over the edge. My body stills completely, my eyes fly wide open and I stare blankly at the ceiling.

After days of staying inside me, Sherlock pulls out, taking off the condom and leaving me. My heart threatens to beat out of my chest and I’m completely paralyzed. 

Some time later I feel rather than see Sherlock slip into bed beside me. I feel him mumble something into my neck. It takes years maybe, but his breathing finally evens out, his grip on my hand softens, and my toes finally wiggle after I tell them to.

I push Sherlock's hand away, tripping and fumbling into the bathroom, falling as soon as I make it to the toilet, and vomit every content of my stomach into the porcelain bowl. My entire body shaking, every bit of me on fire, a cold sweat taking over me. 

I lock the door and collapse on the hard tile, exhaustion taking over, throwing me into a swirling darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait! And after that ending there will be more to come (pun may or may not be intended there ;)) soon!


	16. Chapter 16

I woke up to the sound of Sherlock’s voice outside the door. My whole body aches and I quickly realized I’m not in my own bed. Or any bed for that matter. I crack my eyes open to find myself looking at the bathtub, and that's when all the memories of last night come crashing back into me. The sex, the shame, the guilt, the complete _wrongness_. 

I hear Sherlock’s voice trickle into the bathroom again, soft murmurs and quick footsteps. He must be talking to someone, but I can’t muster up any energy to care. The cool tile on my bare skin feels nice. I look down to see I’m still naked, and a brush of my hands over my stomach reveals I’m more than a little sticky. Sweat and come mixed and dried together. But again, I still don’t really care. 

_“But he won’t!”_ I hear Sherlock say to someone. Its the first clear sentence I can hear. _“Of course I tried knocking, do you think I’m an idiot?”_ I can tell Sherlock is yelling but who at? I don’t hear a reply so he must be on the phone or yelling down the stair at Mrs. Hudson.

I look over at the door and find that I must have locked it at some point. I don’t really remember too much from last night, not after we had finished anyways. I hear some more shuffling of feet and a loud sigh just outside the door, followed by a quick knock. 

“John.” Sherlock says more clearly. “Are you awake? It’s 1 o’clock in the afternoon, you need to come out here or I really will break down this door and I know how you hate it when I invade your privacy!”

“What?” I croak, my voice raspy, and the sudden use of my vocal chords threaten to bring up any bile still left in my stomach.

“John! You’re awake! Can you open the door? Please?” Sherlock asks, enthusiasm dripping off his tone.

“Can’t move.” I mumble into the floor, rolling into a fetal position. I hear Sherlock respond, but my brain is done trying to decipher what he’s saying so I don’t reply. I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing, trying to forget about the taste of vomit in my mouth, the new layer of sweat already forming on my skin over the already impossible amount of old sweat and come crusting my skin. Trying to forget about the tiny scratching sound coming from outside the door, and the dull ache surrounding my body.

My mind is almost completely empty and I’m almost back asleep when I feel a cool hand on my shoulder, making my whole body tense up, and I curl myself into a tighter ball. “Please don’t touch me.” I whimper, my voice soft and shaky, and my eyes are still closed.

“John.” Sherlock breaths out, removing his fingers from my skin. “What have I done? I-I thought you were enjoying yourself last night, why didn’t you tell me something was wrong?”

“I wanted it to be okay.” I whisper, refusing to look at Sherlock. Knowing that any minute he would leave me, see what a fuck up I am and realize I’m not worth it. 

“But it wasn’t okay!” Sherlock says, raising his voice for the first time, making me cringe slightly.

“I didn’t mean to, please don’t leave me.” I choke out, my breath catching in the back of my throat as I lift my head enough to look up at Sherlock for the first time, a stray tear slipping past my eye. 

The look on Sherlock's face is somewhere between hurt and confusion. “I don’t know how to do this.” He tells me, lifting his hand up, but quickly putting it back down when he sees me flinch at the motion.

“I’ll be good, I promise, please just one more chance.” I whisper, unable to hide the tremor in my voice.

“Can you tell me what happened John?” Sherlock asks. “And can I hold your hand? I, I want to make you feel better I don’t know what's wrong.”

I grip both hands tightly to my chest, protecting my skin from any sort of contact with Sherlock. I close my eyes and let my head fall to the floor once again. “It didn’t feel different.” I whisper, each word feeling like a stab to the chest.

“What didn’t feel different?” Sherlock asks, his voice surprisingly calm compared to the storm going on inside my head. “I need you to answer me John.” Sherlock adds after I don’t answer.

“You didn’t. You felt just like him.” I choke out, my voice quivering as I try to push myself further away from Sherlock, trying to create some sort of distance. 

“John.” Sherlock says, his voice cracking for the first time. “I tried to be gentle. You-you told me it was okay. I’ve never, I didn’t mean. What do I do John, you need to help me I don’t understand!” Sherlock’s voice has so much emotion, anger, fear, sadness, confusion. But I don’t know what to do either. I haven’t felt this worthless and used since I was a teenager. 

I don’t answer and I savor the next couple of minutes of silence. I listen to Sherlock breath, the soft ins and outs of his breath, I hear the shuffle of clothing every time Sherlock changes his position, trying to find comfort on the linoleum floor, but finding none. 

I can hear Sherlock's patience wearing thin as he lets out a heavy sigh. “Should I make tea or something, since you’re so apt on not talking to me.” Sherlock says, hiding the hurt tone behind the quick snap of his voice.

“No.” I say, “I want you to tell me your favorite childhood memory.” I say, my voice sounding much steadier than earlier.

“What?” Sherlock asks, a sting to his voice still.

“Tell me something that makes you happy. A memory from when you were little.” I say again, starting to feel a slightly better. But I want that deep rumble of Sherlock's voice to lull these frantic thoughts bouncing around my head, the low baritone of his voice to whisk away the pain.

It’s almost like I can hear the gears turning in Sherlock's head as he pauses, thinking about my request. “I, uhm, okay.” He starts, his voice missing sting it had previously. “When I was little, still in primary school, I was home on break. Mine and Mycroft's didn’t match up, and at the time I was sad, I actually liked my brother back then. I didn’t want to spend my whole break playing by myself.” Sherlock paused for a moment, I could hear him shuffle again to sit with his back up against the wall.

“It had been raining really hard for about three days and my nannies wouldn’t allow me to go outside to play until the weather cleared up. But after three days of being stuck in the house I devised a plan to sneak out so I could go and play pirates in the rain. I made it out the back door with my favorite pirate hat and toy sword and went far enough away in the back yard that no one could find me. 

“I had been outside for an hour or two, sopping wet and hiding in bushes and climbing trees. I was searching for treasure when I heard whimpering coming from a bush I had yet to explore. I was a little frightened, but I was supposed to be a big bad pirate, so I found my courage and looked in the bush to find a puppy. He was so small and looked like he just really needed some food and a warm place to stay.”

At this point I took the chance to open my eyes and look in Sherlock's direction. He was leaning up against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, and staring off, looking at some spot on the adjacent wall. He was wearing just a pair of pajama bottoms and his hair was still a mess from the night before.

“I was immediately attached to the little thing.” Sherlock said, a ghost of a smile threatening to form on his lips. “I took him home right away. I had to beg the nannies to let me feed him and warm him up. It took all of my persuasive ability, but they eventually gave in.” Now the smile was fully placed on Sherlock's face, all his feature brightening up at the simple memory.

“Mum and dad even let me keep him. I named him Redbeard, after my favorite pirate. He was my best friend. My only friend at the time. We did everything together, and I trained him so he would only listen to me and the nanny, Mycroft was so mad.” There was a laugh in Sherlock's voice, a laughter that I could feel deep down to my bones. 

“That’s a good memory.” I say, sitting up, only wincing slightly at the tenderness of my bum and the ache in my muscles. “Could. Could you go and fetch me some clothes, love? I’m feeling a little better.”

Sherlock gave me a calculating look as he stood up. “You called me love.” He said softly, heading towards the door.

“Well, I love you.” 

“Oh. I thought-”

“No, I love you, Sherlock.” I interrupt, my voice finally sounding like it has power behind it. “This is just something I need to get through, it will be okay.”

“Something we need to get through.” I hear Sherlock mumble to himself as he slips out of the door. My heart involuntarily swells at the thought of Sherlock wanting to help. I know deep down he’ll try, and try his best. But it’s not Sherlock that’s the problem here.

“I’ve brought you your favorite pajamas.” Sherlock says as he steps back into the bathroom a moment later. “I’ll start you a bath, do you want help standing up?”

“No.” I say quickly. “I-I don’t want you to touch me. Please, not until I’ve cleaned myself.” I need to rid myself of this grimy layer, to wash away the memory or last night from my skin. I can’t have Sherlock, or anyone, touching me when I feel this way.

Luckily Sherlock understands, and he turns his back to me as he goes about preparing a bath, ignoring me as I struggle to my feet.

Once I sink into the cleansing water Sherlock heads for the door. “Call me if you need anything, okay? I’ll be right outside.”

“Thank you.” I murmur mindlessly as I grab the soap and loofah, immediately scrubbing my skin raw. I don’t know how long I stay in the bath, just cleaning every square millimeter of my body, but when I finally emerge from the tub, the water has gone icy and my skin is freshly pink from violent scrubbing. 

I also brush my teeth, getting the flavor of day old vomit off my teeth and tongue. I shave, and scrub my face one more time for good measure. I pull on the clothes left for me that Sherlock has brought down. 

I take a deep breath and gingerly step outside the comfort of the bathroom, knowing that if I can just muster up the strength to get a quick cup of tea and go and get some real sleep in a real bed, that maybe I’ll be able to face the day, and Sherlock, tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a chapter that really didn't have too much content wise, that was so difficult to write! I've been attempting to write it for days now and it just never seems right! I'm just going to post it now though and deal with my insecurities about it later. I hope the next chapter wont take me as long to write! Sorry to keep you all waiting, but its close to the end of winter term at my college now so I'm doing my best to keep up! Thanks again for all the support everyone!


	17. Chapter 17

“I want to kiss you.”

“I know.”

“It’s been two weeks!”

“I _know_.”

“I’m not broken!”

“John, if I thought you were broken I would have insisted on getting you the best professional help in London. You are not broken, you’re wonderful. But please, for me, I want to give us both time to get past this.”

I glare at Sherlock over his microscope, even though he refuses to look at me. It’s been two weeks since I had that stupid bloody panic attack, and Sherlock has refused to kiss me, touch me, or look at me for more than a few seconds at a time.

“Could I just hold your hand or something? I just need to know you haven’t given up on me.” I say, sounding a lot more pathetic than I really mean to let on.

“I’m supposed to give you space, John. I can’t very well give you space if you’re holding my hand.” Sherlock says tensely, but his eyes finally wander over to mine, looking tired and defeated.

“You’ve given me more than enough space. Please Sherlock, can’t we just try-”

“Try? Try what, John?” Sherlock says, angrily interrupting me. “Last time we ‘tried’ you spent 14 hours lying on the floor, sleeping in your own sweat and vomit! Clearly you don’t know your own limits.”

And that’s enough to get me going, “Sherlock, I’m sorry okay? It was a mistake! I thought I was ready, and I really wanted it to work out!” I yell, throwing my hands in the air. “If anything, we at least know not to go that far again, but we have more options! We don’t have to turn to celibacy!”

Sherlock just scoffs at that and turns back to his microscope, obviously done with the conversation. I let out a heavy sigh, I know this is just as frustrating for Sherlock as it is for me. 

“Sherlock.” I try again, softer this time. “We’re both scared, alright? We’ve been through a lot. But right now what I need is you. We don’t have to do anything, but I just need to know you’re here with me, and not with your experiment. Okay?”

It takes a couple minutes for Sherlock to respond. I can see the gears turning in at big brain of his. Probably running through every possibility known to man. But he must finally settle on a reasonable, or at least reasonable for him, option because when he looks up at me with those icy blue eyes, I can’t help but smile at him before he even answers me. 

“And holding my hand will give you that?” He asks nervously, pulling another chair closer to him.

“Yeah.” I say, taking the seat next to him. “Just something to tell me you’re still real.” I can feel my heart speed up as I take Sherlock's hand in my own. A huge two week long weight has been lifted off my shoulders. 

We sit in companionable silence for God knows how long. Sherlock looking over his algae slides and scribbling notes, while gently hold the hand that isn’t busy. Somewhere along the way I feel Sherlock's thumb start tracing shapes along the back of my hand, the pads of his fingers light and almost ticklish. 

“You haven't taken a case in two weeks either.” I say softly, breaking the silence.

“Hm.” Sherlock hums back, not taking his eyes away from his work.

“Why?” I ask, looking over the man sitting next to me. Finally taking in each detail I’ve been missing. The messier than usual hair, a t-shirt that's been worn at least three days in a row, dark purple bags under his eyes.

“You needed me.” Sherlock whispers, his voice so quiet I almost missed it. 

“But you needed me too, and I didn’t give that to you.” I say, and that catches his attention.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. You where the one needing attention and support.” Sherlock says matter-of-factly.

“But I hurt you too. I didn’t mean too, but I broke the trust we had, and I’m sorry.” Now it’s my turn to look away, to hide my shame from those beautiful, all seeing eyes.

“It’s okay John, don’t be upset.” I hear Sherlock scoot his chair closer to me.

“No, it’s not okay. I told you I wanted to try that, that I was ready.” I say, still not looking up at him as I speak. “I promised I wouldn’t let it get too far and I took advantage of you. I should have stopped it, but instead I let you believe I was fine. I wanted it to be fine so bad I put your trust and acceptance on the line, and I don’t know if I can forgive myself for that.”

“No, it was my fault.” Sherlock retorts quickly, sounding offended. “It was so obvious you didn’t want to be in that situation. The more I think back to that night, the more cues and hints I remember. I should have stopped, but I was being too selfish to notice I was hurting you.” 

Neither of us are looking at one another anymore. The weight of our confessions too much for us to take. The only thing connecting us is our hands, and the gentle rubbing of Sherlock's thumb over my skin. But the silence is becoming just as unbearable too.

“I love you.” I murmur, looking down at my feet.

“Even after all we’ve been through?” I hear Sherlock’s breath catch in the back of his throat. 

“I’ll always love you.”

The silence is thick and our thoughts are deafening. I can’t help but think this may be too much for Sherlock. Too much too soon. Sherlock’s emotions are so strong, but so deep inside him its hard to know exactly what he’s thinking. I finally sneak a glance up and see a full range of thoughts and feelings crossing over his flawless face. 

“I-I thought.” Sherlock starts, his voice trailing off. “When I finally opened the bathroom door, I thought you were going to leave me. I thought what I had done was unforgivable. I don’t want to hurt you John, because I’ll always love you too. But you are right, I am scared.”

“Sherlock, I want to kiss you.” I try again, trying to make the words sound soothing this time rather than accusatory.

“I know.” Sherlock sighs, and this time finally gives in. leaning forward and just barely brushing our lips together. But it’s enough to let me know this is allowed again, and I quickly push back into the kiss, bringing the hand that's not holding Sherlock's up to that mess of black, silky curls. 

I feel Sherlock sigh into the kiss, and I can’t help the shudder running through my spine. The feeling of absolute joy that fills my chest. This is all I’ve wanted. All I’ve needed. And now everything is out in the open, and I can’t help but smile.

Sherlock surprises me by ghosting his tongue across my bottom lip, a silent question of ‘how far can we take this’?

I respond by opening my mouth, and meeting his tongue with mine. We keep the kiss languid and deep. One of Sherlock's hands exploring my back as I run one of my hands through his hair, all the while still holding hands. 

We break this kiss together, breathing heavy and smiling uncontrollably. “Can we go on a case?” I ask breathlessly, squeezing Sherlock's hand gently. “Please?”

Sherlock's entire face lights up, all the sadness and defeat I saw in his eyes earlier has gone away. “I’ll text Lestrade, he’s got a triple homicide waiting for us.”

Sherlock gives me one last quick kiss on the lips before hopping up and running after his phone in the bedroom. I shake my head smiling like a madman, and follow after him, just like I always will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this took a lot longer than it should have, but here's the final chapter! I hope you've all enjoyed this as much as I have, and I can't believe its finally over! Thank you to everyone who's stuck with this, even with the sketchy updates! You're all great :3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm American! This is not beta'd or britpicked!
> 
> Also, don't be shy! Leave a comment! I would love feed back! :)


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